


If We Never Had This Chance

by missbecky



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Kidnapping, M/M, Misunderstandings, Torture, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-02 23:39:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5268224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbecky/pseuds/missbecky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a difficult mission, Eggsy makes a thoughtless remark that strains his and Harry's relationship. Before they can fully reconcile, though, an old enemy from Harry's past reappears with only one thing on her mind: vengeance. And now their chance for a happy ever after may be gone forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If We Never Had This Chance

**Author's Note:**

> This story would not exist without the help and support of a few lovely people. To Mollie, Niko, Kelly, and Jenny, I love you all and thank you from the bottom of my heart.

The whole way back home, Eggsy keeps seeing it in his head, over and over. The cruel smile on Moreland's face. The dawning moment of recognition in the kid's eyes. The way the kid's head snapped back when Moreland shot him, barely sixteen and dead before he even hit the ground.

_Can't leave any witnesses, can we?_

The kid had blundered onto them at the wrong time, skateboarding innocently into their conversation. And before Eggsy could protest, could even start to explain that he had ways of ensuring a stranger wouldn't remember anything, Moreland had shot the kid.

And for that, Moreland is dead now, too. Arthur won't like it, will tell him that Michael Moreland was a source Kingsman could have used, but Eggsy simply doesn't give a shit. A long week of grueling surveillance work followed by another two weeks of playacting like he was Moreland's best friend, cajoling him into working for Kingsman without letting on what the organisation actually was. Three weeks in all, pretending not to be bothered by the man's casual approach to dealing out pain and bloody violence, and he's just fucking _done._ The death of that innocent kid was just the last straw.

Kingsman don't need informants that badly.

Or that's what Eggsy tells himself as the cab draws near his neighbourhood. And if Arthur don't like it, he can go fuck himself.

He's tired, more tired than he can ever remember being. He can't stop seeing the look on the kid's face when Moreland raised the gun, or the way it seemed to take forever for him to fall to the ground. All he wants is to take a long hot shower and scrub the filth of the last few weeks off his skin. Then crawl into bed and sleep for a couple days. Maybe even a full week. Fuck it, he's earned it.

The cab stops at the white end-of-mews house. Downstairs the lights are off, but there's a lamp gleaming in the upstairs window, in that office with the newspaper headlines on the red walls.

Seeing that, Eggsy's spirits sink a little further. He doesn't want the guilt of knowing that Harry stayed up and waited for him to come home. He doesn't want to talk about what happened, or see that look of sympathy in Harry's eyes and be reminded that he isn't the only one who's gone through terrible things and seen innocent people murdered right in front of him.

"Thanks," he mutters to the cab driver. He shoulders his bag, takes a deep breath, and heads for the door.

He's barely set foot on the step when he hears JB barking inside. Usually it makes Eggsy smile to know his dog is so happy to see him, but tonight it just makes him feel even worse. He's gonna disappoint JB as well as Harry, deny them both the time they want to spend with him. And he's gonna feel like shit about it, too.

But he's still gonna do it.

The door is locked, and he spends an eternity fumbling for his key, swearing under his breath and sighing loudly. Only Harry would wait up for him until half past two in the morning –- and leave the front door locked. At last he lets himself in, and then immediately has to do an awkward dance as he tries to step into the foyer without mashing JB's paws beneath his Oxfords.

"Coulda just let me in," he mutters.

He lets his bag fall to the floor, gives JB a cursory pat on the head, and tosses his keys into the silver dish on the nearest table. Harry hates it when he does that and always makes a point of examining the bowl later for scratch marks, but tonight Eggsy just doesn't care.

He's halfway up the stairs when he hears Harry coming down toward him. He stops where he is, one foot on the step above, and waits.

"Eggsy." Harry looks down at him, fully dressed even at this ungodly hour. "I heard the cab pull up, so I started a hot bath."

That's the best news Eggsy's heard in weeks. "Thank fuck," he sighs. He starts trudging up the stairs again.

Harry doesn't come toward him, but he does turn to the side as Eggsy nears the step he's standing on. And when Eggsy draws even with him, he slides one arm about Eggsy's waist and pulls him in for an embrace.

Eggsy accepts the hug at first. He needs it badly, even if it shames him to admit it. He drops his chin onto Harry's shoulder and wraps one arm around him and holds on tight.

"I'm glad you're home," Harry says quietly.

"Me too," Eggsy says. He had talked to Harry a few times during the mission, but it hadn't been enough, not by far. He had felt very alone, stuck out there with Moreland and his disgusting habits and casual violence toward people who pissed him off. Talking with Harry had helped, but nothing could be a substitute for actually being here with him again.

He's actually clinging to Harry now, which isn't embarrassing at all, damn it. He makes himself drop his arm and move away. He's got to. He can't stand here all night letting Harry hold him. He's a grown man, for fuck's sake. Besides, he stinks like sweat and dried blood. He really needs that bath.

"Would you like something to eat?" Harry asks.

Eggsy shakes his head. Part of him wants to just give in and let Harry take over and do everything for him. But his pride won't let him. He doesn't need anyone to take care of him. Besides, the bath is a good idea, but he can't eat anything right now. Not when he keeps seeing the way the blood sprayed from the kid's head as it snapped back. He's feasted tonight on anger and guilt and self-loathing -- he's full.

"All right," Harry says. "Go on, then. We don't want water getting all over the floor."

"Yeah," Eggsy grunts, and heads on up the stairs.

In the bathroom he sheds his clothes and lets them drop to the floor. Normally he treats the bespoke suit better, but today he doesn't have the energy to worry about it. Faint curls of steam rise from the water; it's hot but not scalding. Just right for him to feel like he can actually get clean again.

The hot water feels good, soothing overstressed muscles and relaxing him. For a while he just sits there, leaning back against the tile wall, letting his hands float in the water. His head lolls to one side, a heavy weight that only seems to be getting heavier with every passing second. It's not until he jerks back from the edge of sleep that he realises how potentially dangerous it is to laze here for too long.

The little burst of adrenaline that accompanied his recovery from sleep is enough to get him going. He washes up quickly, scrubbing at every inch of his skin. He drains the tub and stands up to use the shower so he can wash his hair and then he's done, feeling wobbly all over with exhaustion, but clean at last.

Naked, his hair still wet, he emerges from the bathroom to find Harry waiting for him beside the bed. The covers are turned down, and his pyjamas are neatly folded at the foot of the bed. It's such a perfect set-up, everything arranged all for him -– and it makes Eggsy feel about two inches high.

"Can I get you anything?" Harry asks. He's changed into his pyjamas, too, the blue ones with the white stripe down the seam.

"No," Eggsy says curtly. He doesn't want to talk. He's had his fill of words, listening to Michael Moreland ramble on and on about all the shit he did, having to lie and fake his way through one disturbing conversation after another.

He walks up to Harry. "Just this," he says. He wraps his hand around the back of Harry's neck and pulls him in for a kiss.

Kissing Harry is like coming home. "Get it off," he says, and he fumbles at the buttons on Harry's pyjama top, wondering why Harry even bothered putting them on in the first place. 

Three weeks away from Harry and home and he's missed this, watching Harry get undressed, waiting with anticipation to touch all that bare skin. Sometimes the thought of what he and Harry would do when he got back was all that kept him going. He's imagined all the ways this would go, from slow and leisurely to hot and quick. And yeah, he got himself off a couple times thinking about it, why wouldn't he, but that was during the surveillance portion of the mission, before he understood what a scumbag Moreland really was. Before the innocent kid got killed.

Harry's mouth is warm on his, Harry's hands sure and possessive on his body. Eggsy is so tired he could literally fall over, so he just lets himself sway forward, backing Harry up until his legs hit the bed and they both sort of topple onto it. The falling motion breaks their kiss, and Eggsy scrambles frantically to reclaim Harry's lips, not wanting them to be apart for even a second now that they're finally together again.

He needs this. He needs to feel whole again.

They roll over and now Eggsy is on his side and they're still kissing. Harry's hand slides down his side, those clever fingers mapping out his ribs, his hip, his thigh, then upward again to cup the swell of his arse. Eggsy makes a noise in the back of his throat, and in answer Harry pulls him closer.

Yeah, that's good, and he ruts a little against Harry's cock even as he grabs at Harry's shoulder to gain some leverage. He doesn't really have the energy to keep going, though; he's sort of thinking he'll just ride Harry's cock on down into deep, dreamless sleep, or something like that.

Harry palms his arse, fingertips dipping briefly between his legs, then he skims across Eggsy's thigh and takes his cock in hand.

His soft cock.

He can feel the jolt of surprise all throughout Harry's body. He tries to keep Harry from breaking their kiss and pulling away, but it's a lost cause.

"Eggsy?"

"Nah, it's good," he says. "Come on." He pulls at Harry's shoulder, trying to bring him closer.

Harry hesitates, though. "Are you sure?" he asks. He looks uncertain, which only makes Eggsy even more frantic to keep going. He can get there, he knows he can.

"Fuck yeah," he says, and he pulls at Harry again.

Harry kisses him, but it's light and sweet, not at all what he wants. "I know the past few weeks have been rough," Harry says. He gazes down at Eggsy, concern in his eyes. "I know you've had to do terrible things. Let me take care of you now."

He's too tired and to be honest, too embarrassed, to argue. "Yeah, all right," he says, and it sounds sulky, almost like he's annoyed at having his lover lavish him with attention.

"You're so beautiful," Harry sighs, and kisses him. He presses little kisses all the way down Eggsy's throat, ending with one in the hollow between his collarbones. He rubs light circles over Eggsy's nipple, teasing it erect and making Eggsy arch up into the touch. Wherever his hands go, his lips follow, until it seems like he's stroked and kissed every inch of Eggsy's bare skin.

On any other night, Eggsy would be begging for it by now, clutching at Harry and urging him on with all kinds of filthy promises. But not tonight.

Tonight, it would seem, his stubbornly soft cock has other ideas.

"It's all right," Harry says. He leans down to kiss Eggsy's shoulder, then a little further down, on his bicep.

"It's _not_ all right," Eggsy says, because this has never happened before. He has never felt so humiliated, so angry at his own body.

"It happens sometimes," Harry soothes.

"Yeah," Eggsy snaps, and before he can stop them the words just tumble from his mouth, bitter and thoughtlessly cruel. "You oughta know."

He feels the way Harry flinches back, and he looks up in time to see the shocked hurt in Harry's eyes. For a terrible moment the words hang in the air between them, and Eggsy knows exactly what Harry is thinking, because he's thinking it, too.

"I didn't mean—" he starts to say.

"No, it's quite all right," Harry says smoothly, his composure regained. He sits up. "You're tired and overstressed, and I was putting too much pressure on you. I apologise. The fault is entirely mine."

His willingness to assume the blame is too much. "Harry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"I know," Harry says. He gives Eggsy a quick smile, the kind of smile he gives complete strangers, that never gets anywhere near his eyes. "It's all right." He slides off the bed and stands up.

Eggsy sits upright, noticing with a deepening of shame and self-loathing that Harry is still erect, still ready to go. He wants to curl up in a ball, bury his head beneath the covers and not come out again until next year. He can't fucking believe he said that.

He can't believe he's just sitting here, letting Harry get dressed again and walk away.

He needs some time to process what just happened, though. This has never happened to him before. He's _never_ had a problem getting it up. In fact, usually he has the opposite problem, having to hide embarrassing, unwanted erections from people who absolutely do not need to be seeing them. And he knows it's because he's exhausted and stressed out, he _knows_ that's the reason why, it don't mean he's less of a man or anything like that -- but it still fucking feels that way.

And Harry…the look on his face… _Fuck._

It's only happened to them a few times, and in Harry's defense, it's usually when he's tired and stressed out, too. Each time, he's accepted the situation with apparent good grace, and simply focused on Eggsy's pleasure instead.

And Eggsy, he remembers with sudden burning shame, has always been more than happy to let him do it.

"Fuck!" He buries his face in his hands and moans. He's been a royal dickhead, there's no getting around it. And the longer he sits here, whining and feeling ashamed, the worse it's going to get.

He shoves himself off the bed and onto his feet. He puts on the pyjamas that are about to fall off the bed, having been kicked aside as he and Harry rolled around. They're wonderfully warm and soft, a birthday present from Harry last year.

Thinking of that just adds to his guilt. He feels his shoulders hunch up, his head come forward a little. He can't help it. He's spent most of his life having to defend himself whenever he fucked up. And he sure as hell fucked up tonight.

He finds Harry in the office, seated at his desk. His laptop is open and he's staring at the screen. He looks up when Eggsy walks in, but he doesn't smile the way he usually does. He just looks at Eggsy, his expression giving nothing away.

"I'm sorry," Eggsy says. He stands in the doorway, ready to bolt at a moment's notice. He knows it ain't like that, Harry would never strike out at him –- but words can hurt worse than fists, another fact he knows far too well. "That was a shit thing to say. And I didn't mean it, I didn't, I was just—"

"I know," Harry says. "You're tired and you had a difficult time with Mr. Moreland. I understand." He smiles a little, the merest suggestion of it tugging at his mouth. "It's all right, Eggsy. Just get some sleep. You need that more than anything else right now."

It's not all right. Not at all. But he doesn't know what else to do. Harry obviously doesn't want to hear his apologies, and standing here like a berk isn't going to make things any better. And he _is_ tired, he's so damn tired, so Eggsy nods. "Okay," he says.

He has to try one last time, though. "You're not coming?" As soon as the words leave his mouth, he winces, because _fuck_ , that was not the right thing to say, considering what just happened.

But either Harry doesn't see the sad irony in his question, or he chooses to ignore it. "Not just yet," he says. "I want to finish this up first. I'll be in in a little bit."

Eggsy just nods again. He'll probably be sound asleep by the time Harry comes back to bed, assuming Harry even bothers to return at all. He wouldn't be one bit surprised if Harry decided to sleep in the guestroom tonight. 

And he knows perfectly well that he would deserve that snub, too.

He climbs into bed and pulls the covers up. He reaches out for Harry's pillow, and for a moment he nearly gets back out of bed. He'll go to the office again, he thinks, and this time he'll actually go in instead of hanging about in the doorway. He'll be the proper adult and he'll ask for Harry's forgiveness. He'll say that he was wrong, that he didn't mean it, it was just the exhaustion and his lingering bitterness over the mission and that poor kid's death talking. He'll say that he never minds when Harry can't perform, that he doesn't love Harry just for the sex, that he just wants to be with Harry in any way he can. He'll say it right, too, not stammer over the words and get all awkward and embarrassed, not make it sound like pity or like he's just saying it to get Harry to come to bed. He'll say it all and Harry will look at him with love again, and he'll smile and return with Eggsy to their bedroom, and as they walk down the hall he'll put his hand on the small of Eggsy's back the way he so often does, that light touch saying more about how much he cares than any number of words. They'll kiss each other goodnight and he'll know then that it's okay, that Harry really forgives him, that they can move on and forget this awful night ever happened.

Eggsy thinks all this in the time it takes for his hand to settle on Harry's pillow.

And then he's asleep, thinking of nothing at all.

****

When he wakes up, it's so light in the room that for a moment he's utterly disoriented, with no clue of where he is. Then he looks around and he sees the walls painted a light blue-gray, and he remembers painting them with Harry, and then he remembers.

Remembers everything.

Eggsy groans and drapes his left arm over his eyes. His mouth tastes vile and he aches all over, like he was fighting in his sleep. Also he's clearly slept far too late. Harry – if he ever came back at all – must have taken pity on him and let him sleep.

He groans again, pitiful and not caring. He's not looking forward to today. He has to make his report to Arthur and talk about the moment when he let that kid die. He wonders if they've identified him yet, if his innocent victim has a name now. He'll have to explain himself, why he chose to kill Moreland instead of continuing to woo him as a source for Kingsman, and what makes him think he's got the authority to be single-handedly making those kinds of decisions.

But before all that, before he can even think about going in to Kingsman, he's got to apologize to Harry.

He drops his arm down to his side and squints in the too-bright light. He rolls his head on the pillow and sees by the clock on his nightstand that it's almost half past ten.

"Fuck," he breathes. He throws back the covers and sits up. 

He sees the note then. It's on Harry's pillow, a sheet of thick paper embossed with Harry's monogram at the top.

 _Dear Eggsy_ , it reads. _You were sleeping so soundly I didn't have the heart to wake you. I've gone on to the shop. I will make your excuses to Arthur. Come in when you're ready._

The note is unsigned.

****

It's not until he's dressed and ready to go that he spots the message on his phone. Quickly he listens to it – and his spirits plummet still further.

"Gawain." It's Merlin, crisp and professional as ever. "We need you to work a shift today at Lock and Co. Bedivere has fallen ill, and you're the only one available. When you've finished there, come to HQ and you can debrief then."

The message was left three hours ago.

Eggsy sighs. "Bloody hell."

****

Generally Eggsy doesn't mind working at the hatters. It's quiet and often fairly boring, but overall it's not a bad way to spend the day. The shop is owned by Kingsman, although that fact is buried beneath a ton of legal paperwork that would make it very difficult for anyone to actually figure that out. Everyone who works there is connected to Kingsman somehow, so on the rare occasion that a call comes in saying that a certain client needs to be given a certain hat, anyone can respond and make sure the request is met.

Today being a rainy Thursday, there isn't much business. Eggsy isn't even needed up front. After apologizing profusely to poor Kay, who's been here alone since the shop opened, he spends most of the afternoon in the back, taking inventory and doing a little light cleaning.

There's still an hour left in the day when he runs out of things to do. He pokes his head out front, but there's only one customer, an old lady who's already pretty wet from the rain browsing through the selection of rain hats. Obviously Kay can handle it himself, so Eggsy withdraws to the back again.

He settles himself behind the desk in the tiny office area. There's a stack of post in one inbox and a pile of invoices in the other. He opens the top drawer of the desk and goes through a jumble of pens and pencils, finds an old calculator missing the 7, a chain of paper clips that someone clearly put together on a day as boring as this one, and a stapler.

The second drawer contains the real prize. In here are the little trackers, the tiny devices that send out a GPS signal, listen in on everything being said around them, and allow for the listener to talk back. Eggsy stares morosely at them, each one nestled in its own snug little box. Most of the boxes are lightly coated in dust; evidently there isn't much call for them. But here they sit anyway, on the off-chance that a mark will come into the shop looking to buy a hat – as Richmond Valentine had once done.

Eggsy opens one of the boxes and lifts out the tracker. He remembers the utter shock of hearing Harry's voice in his flat after the events at the Black Prince, calmly threatening Dean and giving Eggsy his chance at making an escape.

On that first ever train ride to HQ, Harry had apologized for planting the device on him. "I was already convinced you would be a good candidate for Kingsman," he had said. "I merely needed to be certain."

Eggsy had just nodded. This was nothing new; people always expected the worst from him. Why should Harry have been any different?

"And also," Harry had said, "after what happened in the pub, I was rather worried for your safety."

That had made Eggsy sit up. "I can take care of myself," he had said, defensive and ready to argue the point.

"I'm sure you can," Harry had said, and he had been totally sincere, no hint of mockery in his tone. He had looked at Eggsy for a long moment, fond affection in his gaze. "But I was still concerned."

Eggsy's heart had done this funny little twisting thing in his chest then. He wasn't used to someone caring like that. Especially someone who had no real reason to care.

He had stared back at Harry, and for a moment -– only a brief moment -– there had been something more than affection in Harry's eyes. Something deeper. An instant later it had vanished, but all throughout his training Eggsy had remembered that look, and he had held onto it tightly.

It's a memory he still treasures. And sitting there in the office at Lock and Co., Eggsy sighs. That momentary lapse on the train that night was unusual. Harry has been a spy for over half his life; he's damn good at concealing his true thoughts and feelings behind whatever face he wishes to project. Particularly when he's upset or angry about something.

Like last night.

Eggsy knows Harry was more hurt by what he said than he let on. He's just so good at hiding it, and Eggsy was so tired, that he let himself believe it wasn't that big a deal.

But it was. It is. And he needs to make things right.

He pulls out his phone, hesitates, then sends a quick text. _I'm bored. Need to buy a hat?_ Maybe if he keeps things light, it won't be so bad.

But there is no response, and too late Eggsy remembers Merlin's voicemail saying he was the only one available to work at the hatters today. Which means Harry is busy.

Which means Harry is on a mission.

And he hasn't said a word about it to Eggsy. There's been no text. No voicemail. No nothing.

Anxiety settles in his chest, fluttering against his ribs with every breath. It's cool, he tells himself. They do this all the time, leaving for a few hours at a time to handle the little things. Harry will be fine. He probably left early this morning, while Eggsy was still snoring away in bed, and didn't want to wake him.

Still… It's an unspoken rule between them that whenever one of them is sent off on a mission, they let the other one know. The fact that Harry didn't tell him bothers him. A lot.

 _You know why he didn't tell you_ , he thinks.

And yeah, all right. He does know. Of course he does. Harry is still upset with him for that shitty thing he said last night.

He glances down at his watch; there's just 40 minutes left in the day. Surely Kay can close up the shop on his own. He shoves the desk drawer closed hard enough to rattle the whole thing, then goes into the front.

The little old lady is gone. Most likely she left without even buying anything. Eggsy looks at Kay. "Listen, I gotta go," he says. "Debrief with Arthur and all."

Kay almost certainly knows Eggsy is full of shit, that he won't be expected at HQ until he's finished here, but he just nods. "Go on, then," he says.

For a poncy old guy with a silver spoon wedged up his arse, Kay really isn't that bad. Eggsy feels guilty for skiving out on him, but not enough to stick around. He grabs his coat and puts it on, and opens his Rainmaker as he steps out into the rainy afternoon.

It's not a long walk to Savile Row. On a nice day it's even pleasant. Today, though, Eggsy glowers at every zebra crossing he gets stopped at. Today it's difficult to let other people go first, to be the patient gentleman he's supposed to be now. Water flies from his Oxfords as he strides swiftly down the pavement, umbrella over his head, the cuffs of his trousers getting progressively wetter with every street he turns down.

He doesn't give a shit about his cuffs. All he wants is news of Harry, to see him again, to speak to him.

He wants things to be all right between them. He knows Harry is thinking all kinds of ugly thoughts about his age, about whether or not they should even be together. If he knew the magic words to put things right, he would say them in a heartbeat. But he doesn't. He doesn't even know where Harry is. 

Without thinking, he digs his Kingsman glasses out of his pocket and puts them on. A touch to the bridge activates them. After a moment a voice comes over the earpiece. "Go ahead, Gawain."

It's not Merlin. It takes a few seconds for Eggsy to place the voice. Female, lightly accented. "Caradoc," he says. "How are you?"

"I'm well," she replies. "What do you need?"

Eggsy bites his lip. He doesn't know her that well, and he feels foolish now for contacting Kingsman. After all, he'll be there in an hour or so.

But he made the call, so he better say something. "I just wanted to check in," he says. "Has Galahad returned yet?"

There's a bit of a pause, and he can just imagine her expression, the raised eyebrow, the _why me_ look. "Not yet," Caradoc says. "We don't expect to hear from him until tomorrow."

Eggsy's step falters. Tomorrow? What the fuck? Since when did Harry leave for an entire day without telling him?

"Okay, thanks," he says. He won't ask her where Harry is. He won't let on that he didn't even know a thing about this mission, whatever the fuck it is. She probably already knows, anyway, just based off his question. The least he can do now is pretend that he doesn't know that she knows.

He taps the bridge of the glasses, deactivating them, but leaves them on his nose. There's a chance Caradoc will tell Merlin about their little exchange. He can always hope that Merlin will take pity on him and decide to fill him in.

But Merlin doesn't make contact. No one does. Eggsy makes it to the shop on Savile Row five minutes later, his trousers wet and his mood as damp as the weather. There's only one customer inside, an old bloke who eyes him thoughtfully before turning away to examine a display of scarves.

Eggsy nods to Andrew behind the counter, then heads for fitting room one. He places his palm on the mirror and starts the lift going downward.

"Damnit, Harry," he demands of the empty space around him. "Where are you?"

****

"….don't tell me how to do my job. I know what to do."

"Fine. All right. Roger? What have you got?"

"I found out where the dynamite is stored!"

Safe in his hotel room, six miles away from where this charming group of people is meeting, Harry winces and glares at his laptop. The man called Roger has a very loud voice – and he happens to be sitting right next to the bug Harry planted in their room earlier today.

He gets up from the desk and stretches; the hotel furniture is not terribly comfortable, although he's dealt with worse before. Still, even on the softest furniture, three hours of sitting still while listening to people bicker and argue as they plan to blow up a mobile phone tower would tax anyone's stamina.

It's only sheer luck that Kingsman learned about them at all. Bedivere's sister had dropped it into conversation during a phone call to her brother as she shared with him her tried-and-true remedy for beating the flu. Apparently she was standing outside during the call, because at one point she mentioned her neighbor giving her a dirty look. "Ever since V-Day, she hates mobile phones," Bedivere's sister had said. "She told me she's going to blow up the nearest mobile phone tower." She had laughed. "I think she actually means it!"

Ever the dutiful Kingsman, Bedivere had passed on the information. Because he was too sick to go himself, the mission had been up for grabs for any available agent.

It had been perfect timing. Harry had been ready to take Bedivere's shift at Lock and Co., but when the call came in, it hadn't taken much to persuade Arthur that he would be better utilized on this mission. Let Eggsy work at the hatters, he told Arthur. After the rough mission he had just come off of, a day of calm and orderly shop business would be soothing on his jangled nerves.

After a few moments to think about it, Arthur had agreed. Feeling a bit ashamed of himself, Harry had left before Arthur could change his mind.

So now here he is, stuck in this damp hotel room that smells of industrial laundry detergent. Hoping that he made the right call. Hoping that Eggsy is feeling better today.

Hoping there won't be a repeat of last night's unpleasantness.

Harry frowns at the wall. He doesn't want to think about last night. He needs to focus, to remember why he's here.

It's hard, though. He had been rather concerned for Eggsy, just coming off the Moreland mission. Not so much because of the undercover role -- there hadn't been much of that required -- but because the very nature of the mission went against everything Eggsy believed in. Pretending to like such a despicable person and not pass judgement. Standing back and doing nothing as ugly events unfolded in front of you.

He had known about the death of the innocent kid even before Eggsy made it back to London. Merlin had filled him in, much to his regret. Until then Harry had been following the mission reports with mingled pride and worry, but that unnecessary loss of life had been the final straw.

So he had waited up for Eggsy and he had prepared as best he could, thinking he knew what to expect. Everything he had done had been designed to make Eggsy's homecoming as easy as possible. Because he remembered all too well how it felt to turn yourself inside out for a mission.

But for all his foresight, he still hadn't seen it coming.

A burst of laughter from the laptop jerks him out of his thoughts and makes him glare in its direction. This group he's spying on isn't really dangerous, he's certain of that. There's no need for drastic measures to stop them. A few minor roadblocks should end their plans for glory. A discreet phone call will get one of them sacked from their new job at the mobile phone company; another call to the construction company so they take better precautions about their supply of dynamite, and the problem should solve itself.

On the one hand, he's glad. He's never relished unnecessary killing, although that's never stopped him from doing the job. But he has to admit that he's somewhat disappointed, too. He wishes they _were_ dangerous. He'd like to confront them head on. He was looking forward to something involving a little more physical activity. Breaking and entering and planting bugs in people's houses is hardly taxing work.

That's what he really needs. He's worked long and hard to get to where he is, able to resume field work after Kentucky and the shot that should have claimed his life with only a minor downgrade in his performance evaluations. He could use a good old-fashioned fistfight right now, something to get his heart going and his blood pumping.

Something to make him feel like he's not old.

And that's the heart of it, isn't it?

He's heard enough, Harry decides. He gets up and goes into the bathroom, although habit has him leave the door open so he can still hear their voices – just in case. He splashes cold water on his face; he was up most of the night and he's more tired today than he'd like to admit. Worse, the weight of fatigue only makes him feel even older than he already does.

Harry sighs. In the mirror, his reflection does the same.

It's barely 5:00 but it's already full dark out. He's not hungry, but he needs to start thinking about what he's going to do for dinner; if he waits too long there won't be any options available. This is probably a very nice town, but it isn't exactly London, with restaurants open until all hours.

He should also think about contacting Eggsy.

He's been remiss in not getting in touch before now. In fact, he knows full well that it's juvenile, that he needs to behave like the mature adult he is supposed to be.

But what Eggsy said still hurts. A lot.

Yes, it's happened a few times that he was unable to perform sexually. It's hardly surprising, given his age. And to be fair, there were mitigating circumstances each time, stress and exhaustion dragging him down and thwarting any plans he might have had to spend the night happily wrapped up in Eggsy's arms.

Each time, Eggsy has been nothing but generous, smoothing over his embarrassment. And Harry has always been quick to turn the disappointment into an opportunity to focus on Eggsy and his pleasure. For his part, Eggsy has certainly never seemed reluctant to accept the attention, and they've simply moved on as though it never happened.

But apparently Eggsy had resented it more than he ever knew. Had taken it to heart and held it against him, enough for the truth to come out in those angry words. Last night it was Eggsy's turn to deal with a body that had betrayed him. Eggsy was the one who had to cope with the ringing shame and the anger. Harry is certain this is the first time such a thing has ever happened to him. And in his shock and distress, he blurted out the first hurtful words he could think of, except instead of aiming them at himself, they were pointed directly at Harry.

Oh yes, Harry knows all the rationale behind it. He understands perfectly. He's been there, as the saying goes.

And it's all bullshit. None of it makes the memory hurt any less.

In a terrible way, it's almost a relief. He's been quietly expecting this ever since the first day they slept together, since the morning when he woke up with Eggsy beside him in his bed and he felt that first thrill of absolute panic. _What the fuck are you doing?_ he had asked himself that morning -- and it's still a question he asks himself far too often.

Part of him has always known this would never work out. He and Eggsy are alike in many ways, but the differences between them sometimes seem insurmountable. Obstacles of time, class, and experience that no martini can overcome; gaps of age and history that no bespoke suit can bridge. 

Eggsy deserves someone younger, someone able to keep up with him effortlessly, someone he can grow old with. He's never really lived alone, never had a chance to figure out who he is and what he wants out of life. He went from his mother's house to the Marine barracks, then back to living with his mother and brute of a stepfather, and from there straight into Kingsman. He's never dated around, never been given the opportunity to find out what he really wants to do.

Oh, he loves being a Kingsman agent, there is no doubt of that. He's bloody amazing at it, too, just as Harry always knew he would be. But that's his professional life.

The real question, the question that Harry is quietly terrified has just been answered is, what does Eggsy want for his personal life?

He hangs the towel up and returns to the bedroom. He picks up his phone and types a message. _Was called away on business with no chance to tell you beforehand. I'm sorry for the late notice._

He hesitates, then adds, _I hope you're feeling better today._

Before he can start to doubt himself, he sends the text and sets his phone down.

Eggsy's reply comes quickly. _Mtg w/ A in a few. When r u coming back?_

The annoying chat speak aside, the message makes Harry frown. Under normal circumstances, he will always choose the stress of a long drive home in the dark, provided it gives him the opportunity to sleep beside Eggsy in his own bed. Now, however, he isn't so sure.

He glances at his laptop, where those people are still talking about how to blow up their bloody mobile phone tower. And abruptly he makes his decision.

 _Tonight_ , he replies. _You don't have to wait up._

 _Ok_ , Eggsy texts back. But it's unclear which part of Harry's message he's replying to.

And that's fine. Because it's not his reply that Harry is interested in. It's what Eggsy _does_ that will tell him where things stand between them – and what he needs to do next.

****

Once JB stops barking, the house is still and silent. Eggsy pets him absently and gathers up the leash, then takes the dog outside. While he waits for JB to do his business, he yawns and blinks the involuntary wetness from his eyes; even though he had a relatively easy day, he's still really fucking tired.

The debrief with Arthur went as well as he expected it to, which is to say it was total shit. He got in Arthur's face and defended his decision to kill Moreland, and Arthur said it was a good thing everyone knew that the stress of a hard undercover mission sometimes made agents say things they would later regret, and Eggsy snapped back that he didn't regret a fucking thing, thank you very much.

There hadn't really been much to say after that.

He sighs and yawns again, watching JB scratch at the grass. He had hoped to hear something more from Harry by now, but there's been nothing after that last text.

He goes back inside and turns on the telly. For dinner he makes himself a sandwich and opens a packet of crisps. It's not really enough food for a satisfying dinner, but he's not up to cooking anything, and he'd just as soon stay in tonight.

He's gonna take a nap, he decides. Sleep for a little bit, then wake up in time to be ready when Harry gets home. And if he doesn't wake on his own, he can count on JB to start barking as the car pulls up to the kerb.

And then they can talk this out. He'll apologize all over again if he has to. Do whatever it takes to earn Harry's forgiveness.

 _We'll be fine_ , he tells himself as he climbs the stairs.

_We'll be just fine._

****

It's not JB who wakes him, though. It's a soft sound, the not-noise of a person sneaking around, trying to be quiet.

Instinct takes over. Eggsy is up and rolling toward the nightstand where he keeps his gun before his brain catches up and he realizes what he's seeing. Then he slumps back against the pillow. "Hey," he says, all fuzzy. "You're back."

"Yes," Harry says. He's still in his suit and tie. He looks tired.

Eggsy sits up. "Timezit?" He left the light on when he went to bed earlier, and now he blinks at the clock.

"Quarter past eleven," Harry says.

"Fuck," Eggsy mumbles. "I was gonna…"

"Go back to sleep," Harry says. Usually by now he's come forward to kiss Eggsy hello, but tonight he just stands there and loosens the knot in his tie. "I'll be there in a moment."

"I meant to," Eggsy says. "I mean..."

Harry goes into the bathroom and quietly shuts the door behind him.

"Fuck," Eggsy breathes. He thunks his head back against the headboard of the bed. He fell asleep. He fucking fell asleep. So of course now Harry thinks he didn't wait up for him.

And yeah, Harry's text said not to wait up, but everyone knows that's a crock of shit. When someone says that, what they really mean is, _Please wait up for me._

He yawns and runs his fingers through his hair as he waits for Harry to finish in the bathroom. It doesn't seem to take Harry any longer to get ready than usual, but to Eggsy the wait feels like it lasts for an eternity. Like Harry is deliberately putting off the moment when he has to go back out there and face Eggsy.

Hell, maybe he is.

Stripped down to his underthings, Harry leaves the bathroom. He puts his laundry away, opens his dresser and pulls out a pair of brown striped pyjamas. As he gets dressed Eggsy watches him, taking his usual pride in the sight of Harry's body.

Traitor that it is, his cock stirs.

Which reminds Eggsy of what he still needs to do. "Everything go okay?"

"Yes," Harry says. He turns off the light and climbs in bed. "I let JB out, by the way."

Eggsy grimaces; he forgot all about the pug. "Thanks." He lies down as Harry does, the two of them shifting about until they get comfortable. "I was gonna stay up, you know."

"I said you didn't have to," Harry replies. His voice comes from the dark on Eggsy's left, as calm and mild as ever. If he's still angry, if he's still hurt, it's impossible to tell from his tone.

"Yeah, but I wanted to," Eggsy says. He takes a breath. "And I'm sorry, Harry. For what I said. I'm so sorry."

Harry doesn't say anything right away. That silence scares Eggsy more than he wants to admit, and he finds himself blundering ahead, filling it with all the words he's held inside his head all day. "I didn't mean it in the way you think. I was just, it was humiliating, okay? And I didn't know what to do. And anyway, it doesn't mean shit. I love you, okay? And I love having sex with you. But if somethin' was to happen, and we couldn't, it wouldn't change anything for me. I'd still love you. I'd still want to be with you." His cheeks are burning and he wants to throw back the covers and run away. "I just hope you know that."

The silence stretches out, dark and forbidding. And then Harry says quietly, "I do know all that, Eggsy. But thank you for saying so."

The breath rushes out of him, leaving him feeling weak and pathetic. "So we're okay then?"

"Yes," Harry says. From the darkness, he reaches out and touches Eggsy's face. "We're okay." His thumb strokes Eggsy's cheek. "I love you, too."

The relief makes him almost dizzy. He thinks about rolling over and making a comment about picking up where they left off, but common sense intervenes. Not tonight. Not when the ugly words from yesterday are still too raw between them. Better to give it some time.

He settles for moving in close, his forehead on Harry's shoulder, his leg pressed against Harry's leg. The physical contact soothes the last of his anxiety and he lets himself accept that things are truly okay.

****

The next day, Harry returns to the northern town to deal with his would-be bombers. He's back after only a few hours, but the mission is considered a success; certainly Eggsy doesn't read about any mobile phone towers being destroyed.

Eggsy himself is sent to Cardiff, which is nowhere near as exciting as various British sci-fi TV shows would have you believe. It's made somewhat more exciting, though, when he discovers the enormous bomb planted beneath the Millennium Centre. Caradoc walks him through disarming the thing, and at the end of it, Eggsy crouches beside the now-harmless bomb and vows to never again make fun of her taste in tea.

He comes back home to find Harry in the kitchen, just taking the roast out of the oven. The whole house smells heavenly, and Eggsy hugs him from behind, rising up just the tiniest bit on his tiptoes so he can rest his chin on Harry's shoulder and kiss his cheek. "Miss me?"

"Were you gone?" Harry says. "I was going to eat this lovely roast all by myself. With JB's help, of course."

Eggsy grins.

Yeah, they're okay.

****

Except…they're not.

On the surface, everything seems fine. They talk about their day and text back and forth like usual. With their schedules, it's not often that they get to have dinner together, but when they do, they work together in the kitchen the way they always do, with efficiency. Harry tells a story about a bloke he met in Amsterdam that leaves Eggsy howling with laughter, and Eggsy livens up the evening by re-enacting his panic on seeing the bomb in Cardiff.

But the laughter rings hollow. And there's a tension between them that never existed before, not even in those first days when Eggsy was still just a recruit for Lancelot's position. They've finally acknowledged the elephant in the room, and it's here to stay.

They haven't even tried to have sex since that disastrous night when Eggsy ruined it all.

Eggsy tells himself that he doesn't want to push. Harry was the one who got hurt, so it should be his choice to say when they have sex again. Except Harry doesn't seem interested. Not one bit. And Eggsy's vowed not to bring it up first. Which means he's left with furtive wanks in the shower in the morning, standing with one arm braced on the shower wall, consumed with guilt and self-loathing while he bites his lip to stifle his moans.

They're broken now, him and Harry. And he's the one who broke them.

And he doesn't know how to fix them.

****

The afternoon smells of freshly mown grass. Far across the lawn, a young man rides a mower in a straight line, the bag on the side bulging with cut grass. His name is Nathan, Harry thinks. Or possibly Neville. He was once a possible candidate for Lancelot, but failed. Now he earns his keep on the grounds of Kingsman's estate, while studying chemistry at night so he can join the R & D department.

At least, that's what Harry's been told. He doesn't much care about the failed recruits and where they end up, to be honest.

"Right," Merlin says, "I received a notice this morning. It would seem you're due for an update."

Harry glances over at him. Up until a few minutes ago, they had been discussing the latest news from the Indian branch, and tossing about the possibility of paying them a visit. The conversation had ended, and since then they had simply been walking across the lawn in companionable silence.

Now he experiences a moment of surprise – swiftly followed by the unhappy thought that maybe they shouldn't even bother. Why pretend he's going to be able to go undercover for too much longer? As Eggsy rather pointedly reminded them both recently, he isn't exactly getting any younger.

"Who?" he finally says.

"DeVere," Merlin replies.

Harry blinks. So Kingsman hadn't retired the cover when Valentine shot him. That's unexpected.

Then again, perhaps not. A good Kingsman spends years perfecting a few cover identities that can fit a wide range of scenarios. Harry has several of them, but none better than Henry DeVere, man of wealth and many interests.

The alias has been around nearly as long as he has. The man exists only on paper and in digital form, of course, but every so often Harry has to be seen in public in the persona of Henry DeVere. A photograph in a newspaper here, a mention in a magazine there, and his work is done for another couple years. Valentine's gala would have been the perfect opportunity for such a display, but nothing about Valentine worked out exactly the way they had planned.

So now it's time to find another public occasion in which to be seen. He doesn't mind. These kinds of missions are always easy and usually quite boring, but some of them can be almost fun. The timing is good, too. It's been a few months since the plastic surgery that all but eliminated the scar left behind by Valentine's bullet. Under the right lighting, it won't even be noticeable. And those who do see it and have the impertinence to ask can be entertained by a story of a war wound, an injury sustained during a fox hunt or some such nonsense. He'll work out the lie on the way home tonight, and have it perfected by tomorrow.

"What did you have in mind?" he asks.

"There's a party in New York next week Tuesday," Merlin says. He names a famous actor and actress couple who are known for their charitable work. "Seeing as how Mr. DeVere's last known interests were in climate change groups, it should be easy enough to get you an invitation."

Harry nods. DeVere's activities have changed through the years, although he does try to stay within a certain range. Henry DeVere doesn't attend political rallies or ally himself with any particular party, nor does he donate to charities that are too radical. He has an image to maintain, after all, and a reputation to uphold.

"Do it," he says.

"You should bring Eggsy," Merlin says.

"You know I can't," Harry says. It's been years since DeVere was seen in public with anyone, and after that particularly disastrous mission, everyone at Kingsman responsible for sustaining the cover agreed that it would not happen again. DeVere was a loner now, a man married to his money and his lifestyle. There would be no more partners for him, especially after what happened to the last one.

"I'm not saying you should walk around holding his hand all night," Merlin says with just the faintest hint of sarcasm. Which from him is tantamount to flashing a neon sign. "But you should bring him. Maybe a change of scenery will do you both some good."

Harry frowns. He doesn't want to talk about Eggsy. He doesn't even want to _think_ about Eggsy. He especially doesn't want to think about the fact that Merlin can obviously tell things are not quite right between him and Eggsy.

But now that it's come up, he has to admit that Merlin might be onto something. He hasn't been to New York in years, and Eggsy has never been. Maybe Merlin is right. Maybe they need to get out of their heads for a while.

It could be a mini-holiday. A chance to leave the normal routine behind and do something fun and exciting. Maybe it'll even be enough to make things right between them again.

He knows, of course, exactly what is wrong with him and Eggsy. With his thoughtless words, Eggsy has forced them both to face what they've been avoiding for the better part of a year, since their first kiss in a Kentucky hospital room.

Yet they haven't talked about it. At night they lie together in bed, but they don't have sex. Harry is reluctant to push the issue after what happened last time, and Eggsy seems to have lost all interest, either through guilt or because he's trying to spare Harry's feelings.

Maybe in New York they can discuss it. Maybe they can finally drag it out into the open and talk about it, the way they should have done right at the start. 

"All right," he says. "Give him a cover, too. He might as well start building one up now. We'll leave Sunday." That will give them all day Monday and most of Tuesday to find a chance to hopefully talk things out. He can find out once and for all what Eggsy wants, and make his decision about their future together. If Eggsy still wants to give it a go, they can use the party as a celebration of sorts, even if they can't actually be together in front of everyone else.

And if not? If Eggsy wants to separate and find someone his own age? Then at least Harry can have one last night to watch Eggsy in action as a Kingsman, one last night to be proud of his dear Eggsy, one last night to love him.

Either way, at least he'll know for sure.

****

"You wanted to see me?" Eggsy pokes his head into the research center.

Merlin looks up from his tea and beckons him in. "Gawain. Have a seat."

Somewhat cautiously, Eggsy does so. He has no idea why Merlin's summoned him here, taking him away from what was supposed to be an oh-so-exciting afternoon spent in the armory, breaking down and cleaning the weaponry assembled there.

"Can I get you anything?" Merlin asks.

Eggsy blinks. He forgets sometimes that Merlin is a proper gentleman, too.

Taking his silence for refusal, Merlin nods. He doesn't say anything, though. He just gazes thoughtfully at Eggsy with those piercing eyes of his.

Eggsy sits still and tries hard not to squirm. Generally Merlin isn't the prying kind; he's the guy who knows your secrets but doesn't let on that he knows, even though you know he knows. But right now Merlin is studying him like he's trying to find out everything Eggsy has been trying so hard lately to hide.

"What is it?" he asks. He knows he's bristling, getting defensive, but he really doesn't like the way Merlin is looking at him.

For a few more excruciating seconds Merlin stares at him, then the older man relents. He looks away, and Eggsy can finally breathe normally again.

"It's time for you to craft an alias," Merlin says.

"What?" Eggsy asks blankly.

"All Kingsman agents have an alias they use from time to time," Merlin says. "Most have a few, actually. But we'll start you out with just one."

Baffled, Eggsy shakes his head. "What do you mean, an alias?"

"A cover story for some of your missions," Merlin explains. "An identity you can return to over the years. If you're ever sent on a mission that requires an elaborate cover story, it will be for a good reason. You'll be facing someone with both the means and motivation to make sure you are who you say you are. Which means you need a strong alias, one that can hold up under scrutiny. That's why it's best to build one from the ground up, and add to it over the years."

That…actually sounds kinda cool, Eggsy has to admit. "Do you have one?" he asks.

"I do," Merlin says. "Three, in fact. Although I haven't had to use them in quite some time."

"Does—" He stops there, though, because he doesn't want to ask about Harry. He doesn't even want to _think_ about Harry.

One eyebrow raised, Merlin waits for him to finish. Since he has to say something, Eggsy quickly changes the subject. "So do I get to pick my own name and backstory?"

"The name, yes," Merlin says. "We'll work on the backstory together. Bring in some pictures tomorrow of you at different ages. Make sure your face is clearly visible in them."

Eggsy nods. He imagines a whole crew of Kingsman techs devoted to some pretty intense Photoshop sessions, taking his face from those old photographs and pasting it onto completely different pictures, creating a history for him that never existed. "And my name?"

"Stick with something similar to your own," Merlin advises. "Our brains don't hear it when we're called by a strange name. We've simply learned to tune out those other names. But that can be dangerous in our situation. If I were you, I would use Gary."

"No," Eggsy says. Only his teachers at school ever called him Gary, and even then only on the first day, until he could ask them to call him Eggsy. Hell, even the local cops knew him as Eggsy.

"What about Eddie?" he suggests. It sounds close enough.

Merlin considers this. "That would work. As long as _you_ think it will."

"Sure," Eggsy says easily. Why not?

Merlin doesn't look quite convinced, but he says, "Edward, of course. Eddie to your friends. Which you will make lots of, when you're in your role undercover."

Suddenly less enthused about the whole thing, Eggsy sits up a little straighter. " _Am_ I going undercover?"

It's way too soon, he thinks. He just got off the mission with Moreland, which means he shouldn't be sent undercover again for a while. It's a rule at Kingsman that a certain amount of time must pass before an agent coming off an undercover mission can be sent undercover again. According to Roxy, who knows all the dirt in the organization, apparently there was a pretty bad mission twenty years ago or something, and the agent involved had been pretty fucked up by it. Ever since then, she had told him, the gap rule was strictly enforced. 

"Not quite," Merlin says. "But you _are_ going to take your new alias out for a test drive, so to speak. Next week, in New York. So I suggest you bring me those pictures tomorrow, so we can all get started on bringing Eddie to life."

"Kensington," Eggsy says. "Eddie Kensington." He doesn't know where the name came from, but he likes the way it sounds. It's got a nice ring to it.

"Kensington it is," Merlin says with an approving inclination of his chin.

Beaming proudly, Eggsy leaves. He'll go straight to his mum's house, he decides. He knows she's got old pictures stashed around somewhere. They can go through them and have a few laughs, and he can show Daisy. She'll like that.

****

His mum invites him to stay for dinner, of course. He accepts gladly, and sends Harry a text letting him know. He feels a bit guilty for not inviting Harry, but Michelle isn't exactly happy that her son is dating someone older than herself, so Eggsy tries to keep their interactions down to a bare minimum. It's just easier that way.

It's a good evening. They all have a laugh over pictures of teenage Eggsy with his hair slicked back and a pouty look on his face that he probably thought was sexy at the time. Daisy waits until dinner is over to start throwing food, and to distract her Eggsy winds up playing a game of peek-a-boo with her behind the couch cushions. Daisy's high-pitched giggles fill the house while his mum puts the dishes in the dishwasher and reminds him not to play too rough.

Already it's nearly Daisy's bedtime, so Eggsy gives her a bath, then dresses her in a pair of soft yellow pyjamas with feet. She snuggles against him in bed while he reads her a story from a book of fairy tales. Occasionally she points at one of the pictures, and he elaborates then, adding to the story, giving Cinderella a fondness for Arsenal and chips soaked in vinegar. Daisy laughs and shakes her head, damp hair flying, and Eggsy leans over to kiss the top of her head.

After she's gone to sleep, he goes back downstairs and says good-bye to his mum. She hugs him absently and asks if he's seen her lighter. He tells her no, and then he's out the door, walking back home.

It's a nice night, not too chilly or damp. Within minutes he's in Stanhope Mews, letting himself in the house he shares with Harry.

JB barks to see him, but there is nothing from Harry. Eggsy goes upstairs, and it's just as empty. Harry isn't here.

Not sure whether he's frustrated or relieved, Eggsy takes off his jacket and tie. He's unbuttoning his shirt when JB barks excitedly and runs downstairs so fast he nearly bowls himself over.

Moving more slowly, Eggsy heads down the stairs. He reaches the landing just as Harry comes in through the front door. "Hey," he says.

Harry glances up as he shuts and locks the door. He's in a T-shirt and trackies and still breathing hard from his run. Sweat gleams on his brow and his hair falls onto his forehead in damp curls. "Eggsy. You're back."

Eggsy nods. "Yeah."

Harry goes into the kitchen and takes a bottle of water out of the fridge. Eggsy goes down a couple more stairs and then just stands there uncertainly, watching him.

He's got to say something soon. He knows that. He can't stand this much longer, the awkward silences, the weird tension between them. He misses Harry. He wants things to be like they used to be, when he would have gone up to Harry by now and kissed him soundly, adding to his general breathlessness.

He doesn't know how things got this way, but he does know that he still loves Harry, every bit of him. The sweaty curls, the scar on the back of his hand from an old mission, the swell of his arse. He misses the way Harry smiles at him, warm and fond, and that dimple in his cheek. He misses lying next to each other in bed, sharing a pillow and long, hot kisses.

He would do anything to take back those horrible words he said and go back to how things used to be.

And fuck it, Eggsy decides. He's going to do it. He's going to go over there and give Harry a kiss. He's going to apologize one more time. He's going to –

"Did you meet with Merlin today?" Harry asks.

Eggsy freezes, his right foot still hovering over the stair he was just about to step down onto. "Yeah," he says. He hadn't known Harry knew about that.

"And have you put together your cover?" Harry asks. He sets the half-empty bottle of water on the dining room table.

"Started to," Eggsy says. "Why?"

"There's a party next week," Harry says. "In New York. You're going to attend. Or rather, your cover is."

Eggsy's heart leaps in his chest. Already he's been looking forward to the party and this chance to create an identity for himself, but suddenly he can't wait for it to be Tuesday. "Are you gonna be there?"

"Henry DeVere will be," Harry says with a nod.

That makes Eggsy pause. He hadn't realized Harry's cover was still intact. That was the name he had used for his dinner with Richmond Valentine, the night that had been the beginning of the end, although none of them had realized it at the time.

And then it hits him. He and Harry are going to New York, each with their own cover story, their own identity. They're going to be at a party together –- but as someone else.

It's the perfect chance to talk things out. They can use the roleplay if they need to, but hopefully it won't be necessary. They can finally put things right between them.

"Sounds good," he says. He feels happier than he has all week, since his horrible fuck-up that night he got back from the Moreland mission. "Henry DeVere and Eddie Kensington, at your service." He shakes the hand of an invisible guest, then grins and winks at Harry.

"Oh," Harry says. He looks almost surprised. "No, Eggsy. I'm sorry if I misled you. We _are_ attending the party, but not together. DeVere can't be seen in public with anyone."

All of Eggsy's new hopes crash into dust at his feet. "What the fuck does that mean?" he demands.

"It means," Harry says tightly, "that my identity is a solo one. He has no partners, either of a romantic or business nature. Your identity may be different, that is up to you to decide. But I cannot and will not change mine, not even for you."

For half a second Eggsy nearly tells him to go fuck himself, that he can go to the fucking party alone. Then common sense catches up to him. Of course he's going to the party. There's no way he's not going.

And just because he and Harry can't attend the stupid party together doesn't mean they won't get to spend some time together. They have to get to New York, after all, and even on the Kingsman jet, that's a long trip. Then there's the hotel stay, for at least the day of the party and possibly more.

He takes a breath. "Okay," he says. "I get it. So are we gonna work on our cover stories on the plane then?"

"No," Harry says. "Eggsy, your cover has to be genuine. You must always assume that at any given moment there are at least three people trying to learn who you are. Your cover has to be able to withstand scrutiny far more thorough than a normal background check. There can be no association with Kingsman of any kind. We travel on real airlines and stay in real hotels."

Alone, of course, Eggsy understands in a flash, and this is just getting worse and worse. He and Harry won't even be sharing a room. It's so crushingly disappointing that he can't help saying, "But what if we was to 'accidentally' meet at the hotel bar or somethin'? Could we talk then?"

Harry actually pauses to consider this, which is maybe the worst thing of all. That he can't just say yes right away.

"I think we could do that," he finally says with a faint smile. "But only once."

Eggsy nods. "Yeah, okay," he says quietly.

"I am truly sorry," Harry says, and he sounds like he means it. "But that is the nature of a cover story. Yours may be different, but mine is set. Henry DeVere does not cultivate personal relationships of any kind."

"Why not?" Eggsy asks. He sees the challenge there, and he likes it. Because yeah, maybe that _was_ part of DeVere's identity, but people change. Why shouldn't a fictional person change, too?

Harry hesitates. For a moment he looks distinctly uncomfortable. "I did, once," he says. "It was my choice, for a mission."

A honeypot, Eggsy thinks, even though he's been told repeatedly that such missions don't really exist except in spy movies. A hundred questions pop into his head, some of them quite filthy. "Yeah? How'd that go?" he asks.

"Not well," Harry says curtly. "After that I made the decision that Henry DeVere would not be associated with anyone else ever again. Given what happened, it made sense for the man, but more importantly, it was what _I_ wanted." He looks away, glancing at the water bottle still sitting on the dining room table, then down at the floor. "Now if you'll excuse me…" Without looking at Eggsy, he heads for the stairs.

There's a single second where Eggsy stays where he is at the bottom of the stairs. A single moment when he thinks that he won't move, that he'll force Harry to stop in front of him so they can talk.

But in the end he moves aside. He watches Harry go up the stairs, but for once his gaze doesn't linger on Harry's arse, and he doesn't smile at the thought of following behind him in a few minutes.

He sighs. New York looms over him, a punishment now instead of a prize. He would rather stay home, would rather work for a week in the shop or the hatters, would rather go back to pretending to be best mates with that prick Michael Moreland. Anything except go to that party and have to watch Harry from across the room while acting like he doesn't know him.

Maybe Roxy can come, too. He'll ask Merlin tomorrow when they're working on the pictures and the backstory for his cover.

But if not, well, then he's going anyway.

After all, he knows his job.

****

New York is just as cool as Eggsy always thought it would be. Getting to play the role of wealthy, bored Edward Kensington is cool too, although the charm quickly wears off, so by the end of the first day, he's more than ready to relax in his hotel room and just be himself.

Except he can't. Eddie is something of a playboy, apparently, something he only discovered while he and Merlin were putting the finishing touches on his first-ever fake identity.

So he goes out.

Harry, of course, stays in. It's really strange to know he's in the same hotel, only two floors up, but not be able to communicate with him. They exchange information through Merlin, who is running this particular…well, Eggsy doesn't quite know what to call it. There's no mission, no target, no objective. His only goal is to see and be seen at the party, and possibly have his picture end up in some glossy magazine that caters to news about celebrities.

Beyond that, his time is his own. It's only Sunday and the party isn't until Tuesday night.

He goes to a few clubs, and finds they aren't really all that different from London clubs. Different remixes maybe, but the same music for the most part. Different accents, but people still dressed to impress, looking for someone to fuck, to kiss, to take home. Eggsy dances with a few girls, a few blokes, charms everyone with his posh English accent, and takes a cab back to the hotel.

He hasn't felt this lonely in ages.

****

He spends most of Monday acting the part of a tourist, visiting the Statue of Liberty, Times Square, all that stuff. It's after six when he gets back to the hotel. He takes a long, hot shower, then puts on a navy blue suit and heads down to the hotel bar for a drink.

Harry is already there, nursing a martini. In his role as Henry DeVere, he too is in a suit, this one a blue so dark it looks black. He is frowning down at something on his tablet, and he scarcely glances up as Eggsy takes the stool beside him.

The bartender approaches, and Eggsy looks over at Harry's drink. "That looks good. I'll have one, too."

Harry looks up, seeming to see him for the first time, and Eggsy gestures to his glass. "Martini, is it?"

"Yes," Harry says.

"Gin, I hope," Eggsy says with the start of a smile. It's strange how none of the tension that's been between them all week is here now.

"Of course," Harry replies.

"You're a long way from home," Eggsy says. He holds out his hand. "Eddie Kensington."

Harry shakes his hand, his grip polite but firm. "Henry DeVere. One could point out that so are you."

Eggsy grins, like it isn't breaking his heart that he's finally having a conversation with Harry –- and they're both just playing a role. "Yeah," he says. "I met a bloke last month who happens to work in films. Turns out he's pretty friendly with some major Hollywood stars." He name drops a few, actors and actresses who survived V-Day, most of whom were imprisoned in Valentine's Russian bunker. "They're having a party tomorrow. Wasn't too hard to get an invitation."

He had decided, along with Merlin's support, that Eddie Kensington is the very definition of loose lips. Someone who's never learned distrust, because he's been catered to his entire life. Everything he could ever want handed to him. And no one ever mistreated him because no one dared. His money and his family's influence protected him.

So Eddie talks freely to this stranger at the bar, encouraged by the sound of a familiar accent. Henry DeVere, on the other hand, does not say that he is going to the same party. He merely nods. "That sounds quite exciting."

The bartender brings his martini over. Eggsy doesn't thank him, doesn't even make eye contact. He lifts the glass to his lips and sips at the alcohol. "Oh, that's good."

Harry gives him a polite smile.

"So what are you doing in New York, Mr. DeVere?" Eggsy asks.

"Waiting for my cab," Harry says. He glances at his watch. The Bremont, of course. "Which should be here any moment now."

It's a dismissal that anyone else would be able to pick up on. But Eddie Kensington is clueless, can't fathom anyone not wanting to be around him. "Going to a show, are you?"

"Something like that," Harry says. He is, in fact, going to check out the building where the party tomorrow is located. Not that anyone watching would know that's what he was doing. To a casual observer, it would just look like he was taking a leisurely stroll around the block.

Eggsy only knows this, though, because Merlin told him an hour ago.

"Well, I hope it's a good one," he says, and knocks back most of his drink.

"Thank you," Harry says. He gathers up his tablet and his coat, long and black and just as bulletproof as his suit. "If you'll excuse me."

"Yeah, sure," Eggsy says. "Nice to meet you."

"And you," Harry says. He hesitates a moment, then smiles a little. It's somewhere between the fake smile he gives strangers, and the real deal.

Eggsy will take it.

****

Tuesday night is cold and drizzly, so much like London that Harry feels like he never left.

He's not looking forward to the party. He gets bored quickly at functions like these without a mission-oriented objective to focus on. Nor does he enjoy the roleplay like he used to when he was young and just starting out at Kingsman, when it was actually fun to pretend to be someone else for a whole night. 

But the worst part is knowing that Eggsy will be there and he won't be able to do anything about it. At most they will be allowed a moment of surprised greeting –- _oh, hello, I didn't know you were going to be here, too!_ A few moments of small talk, and then they will move on, circulating through different crowds, not even making eye contact again.

He hasn't seen Eggsy since their brief meeting in the hotel bar last night.

This morning he nearly threw it all away, found himself mere seconds away from going to Eggsy's room and knocking until Eggsy let him in. He knows Eggsy's been out to clubs and bars, seeking the company of people his own age. According to Merlin, he hasn't brought anyone back to the hotel, but that doesn't mean he hasn't wanted to.

Just two weeks ago it wouldn't have bothered him at all to know Eggsy was hanging out in such places. He would have felt secure in his place by Eggsy's side. But everything changed when Eggsy said those words, and now he doesn't know what to think anymore.

The cab comes to yet another halt in the interminable New York traffic. Harry stares blankly out the window, seeing nothing of the city beyond the rain-streaked glass. He has the overwhelming desire to call out to the cabbie, tell him to turn around and return to the hotel.

He's no stranger at having to pretend, at pushing his own feelings down so he can play the role, but tonight he really isn't sure if he can do it.

"Gawain has left the hotel." Merlin's voice is quiet in his ear.

Harry nods a little, knowing Merlin will see the motion through the glasses and interpret it correctly.

There may not be any chance to speak to Eggsy at the party, but nothing is stopping him from doing something about it afterward. One way or another, he must have the truth. If what they had is over, he needs to know. And if not…then he needs to know as well, so he can kick both their arses.

They're both grown men, for fuck's sake. It's time they started acting like it.

On the street ahead, traffic breaks free and the cab starts moving again, pop music playing over the car radio. The cabbie beats out the time on the steering wheel and adjusts the speed of the windscreen wipers. Feeling somewhat better for having made a firm decision, Harry adjusts his cuffs and takes a deep breath. He has to prepare himself for the night ahead. He hasn't been Henry DeVere since the night of that disastrous dinner with Richmond Valentine. He needs some time to remember who that man is and how he's supposed to behave.

And if he's being totally honest with himself, he needs time to prepare for seeing Eggsy again.

****

The party is everything Harry expected. Lots of pretty celebrities who pretend to care about the latest charitable cause, mixed in with a few who actually _do_ care. Some politicians who want to be seen hanging out with celebrities and lending a glad handshake and a glib smile to the charity _du jour_. A handful of wealthy billionaires who have nothing better to do. A few journalists who have been lucky enough to be invited. And Eggsy and himself.

He takes care of his objective within the first half-hour, having his picture taken by one of the reporters. He's not the focus of the photograph, of course, but he's there in the background, his face plainly visible to anyone who cares to notice. And sooner or later, someone will.

They always do.

He spots Eggsy right away, splendidly handsome in his black suit. Not a traditional tuxedo -- Eggsy has taken a few fashion risks tonight in his effort to play the role he's created for himself. Edward Kensington, apparently, isn't afraid to thumb his nose at tradition if it means he looks good.

And he _does_ look good. Harry can't help but watch him, although he does his level best to be discreet about it. Still, as he makes his way around the room, sipping at champagne cocktails and making polite conversation with famous actors and U.S. Senators, he's always very aware of where Eggsy is.

An hour into the party, their random orbits finally bring them together. They meet in front of a punch bowl so large Harry could comfortably sit in it, although his feet would dangle over the edge. "Mr. DeVere!" Eggsy smiles. "I didn't know you were coming to the party." He leans in a little, enough so that Harry can smell his cologne. He doesn't look down as he pours punch into his cup, but he doesn't spill a single drop. "Or are you following me?" He winks.

"I can assure you I'm not," Harry says, a little stiffly. He's mesmerised by the lights reflected in Eggsy's eyes, the sweep of his hair where it's brushed off his forehead, the white of his collar against his skin. He would give anything to touch the back of Eggsy's hand, to lean in still further and capture his mouth in a burning kiss.

And really, that's the only thing that matters, he thinks. He might be too old for this, he might be all kinds of an idiot, but he can't deny his feelings for Eggsy. He was an even bigger idiot to think he ever could.

"Well, it's good to see you again," Eggsy says. He lifts his cup in an imitation of a toast.

Impulsively Harry raises his own glass, even though it's empty. "To London," he says. "Home of old fools too proud to know better."

Eggsy's breath catches. He's completely unguarded in that instant, all his hope and happiness visible in his eyes. Then he swallows hard, getting himself under control again. He clinks his cup against Harry's. "And young fools who oughta have known that," he says.

Harry smiles. "I'll drink to that."

He feels ridiculously happy, enough that he doesn't even mind truly looking like a fool as he raises the empty glass to his lips, only to discover that there's nothing in there. Eggsy's eyes shine with amusement. "Here," he says. "Have some of mine."

"Don't be absurd," Harry says, stiff and formal once more, Henry DeVere sliding back into place. People may have witnessed their moment together. He can't afford to let anyone get the wrong impression. "Sharing one's drink is a completely disgusting habit."

Eggsy draws back a little. "Tell me how you really feel," he mutters.

Harry dips the ladle into the punch and pours some into his cup. He does not look at Eggsy as he does this. He's uncomfortably aware of how close he just came to blowing both their covers. He really _is_ an idiot.

"It was lovely to see you again," he says. He doesn't drink from his cup. "Enjoy your stay in New York."

"You too," Eggsy says. "Maybe I'll see you at a club later, huh?"

"I rather doubt that," Harry says, and gives him his polite smile, the one reserved for people who don't know that they've already overstayed their welcome. "I prefer a more intimate setting if I'm to get to know someone. Such as my hotel room."

Eggsy's eyes widen just a little, and then he laughs. Maybe he's still in character and maybe he's not, but either way, a thrill goes through Harry's entire body to hear it.

It's time to walk away. He's said as much as he can tonight. And it was enough. He and Eggsy are truly all right now. He's certain of it.

"If you'll excuse me," he murmurs, ever the perfect gentleman. He walks away from the table with its huge punch bowl, and he doesn't look back.

But he's still perfectly aware of where Eggsy is.

****

His mission accomplished, Harry would just as soon leave the party altogether and return to the hotel -– and hope that Eggsy does the same –- but he still has a job to do. See and be seen. That's the order for the night, and he is, as always, a dutiful Kingsman.

Besides, now that the initial exhilaration has worn off, anxiety has had time to set in. What if Eggsy is having second thoughts? What if he really did mean to break up with Harry this whole week? One moment of reconnecting in front of a punch bowl will not stop that. He could be getting his hopes up for nothing.

But he doesn't think so. The look of relief on Eggsy's face was far too genuine.

Fools, they called themselves, and it's more true than he would like to admit. He let his hurt pride get in the way, and give rise to all kinds of insecurities. It was a new and unwelcome experience for him; he's used to knowing with confidence exactly where he stands in a relationship.

He sees now how wrong he was. Because Eggsy is still here. Eggsy loves him. No words, no matter how cruel or thoughtless, can change that. Nothing will--

"Henry DeVere." The voice comes from behind him, satisfied and smug. "Imagine seeing you here."

Harry freezes in place. He feels suddenly cold all over, like he's just been doused in ice water. It's been twenty years since he last heard that voice, but he would know it anywhere.

She walks around him, heels clicking on the parquet flooring. He sees her dress first, black, slimming, very elegant. Then the rest of her comes into view, slender bare arms, a large diamond gleaming at her throat.

She smiles, her eyes alight with what looks like pleasure, when in fact Harry knows its pure malice. "You sure do keep a woman waiting."

He stares at her. Time has not been overly kind to her, although twenty years in prison probably has something to do with that, too. Her hair is still long and dark, but that is almost certainly due to hair dye now. Makeup expertly applied hides most of the lines on her face, but not all. She is not beautiful, nor was she ever, but she has more than enough confidence to make up for that.

She glides a step closer. Harry holds still with an effort. It's been twenty years since he saw her, twenty years since he had to suffer her touch, twenty years since he called her "milady" and pretended to love her. But all that time instantly vanishes in her presence, as though it never existed. His skin crawls, his heart beats faster, and only the training of a lifetime enables him to keep his composure.

"Oh shit," Merlin says in his ear, which answers one question at least: Kingsman didn't know she would be here tonight.

"Aren't you even going to say hello?" she asks. That icy smile still lingers about her mouth.

Harry finds his voice at last. "Cassandra." The middle syllable rhymes with the sound a man might make when he is surprised -- or in pain.

"So you _do_ remember me." Her surprise is as fake as her smile. "I certainly remember you." Her eyes bore into his, the look of someone used to getting what she wants. " 'Wait for me,' you said. And then you left. Except you never came back."

No, he hadn't. He had driven away that day with his heart in his throat, just waiting for her to stop him. He would have shot her if she had tried, and then let MI6 and Kingsman fight it out for who got to claim her corpse. He wouldn't have cared, either way. All he had wanted, after months of the worst undercover work he had ever undertaken, was just to get out.

"No," Cassandra says, musing over the words. Like she hasn't rehearsed this speech in her head a thousand times, on the chance that she ever met him again. "You never came back. Instead the police showed up and arrested me for treason. I always found that to be an _extraordinary_ coincidence."

Harry looks at her. He's got two choices now. He can own up to it, stop the charade and speak plainly. Or he can remain in the role he chose for himself all those years ago, and play innocent Henry DeVere.

"I tried to see you," he says, and so there it is.

It had been his last act, his last duty to the mission that Arthur had declared complete. He had already been ordered to take leave then, to not come back until his head was clear and he was fit to return to the field. He hadn't told anyone he was going to the prison, not even Merlin.

She hadn't been able to have visitors then. He had known that, of course. But he had wanted it on the record that he had showed up, that he had tried to see her. Because even then, when it had looked like she would spend the rest of her life in jail, part of him had known that he had to be ready in case they ever met again.

He wonders when she got out, if she was released on her own or if she pulled some daring escape. She's made no effort to disguise herself, however, which probably indicates her presence here is entirely legal.

As if reading his mind, Merlin speaks again. "Her name is on the invitation list. I saw it but didn't make the connection. I'm sorry, Galahad."

Harry doesn't reply. He can't, of course.

Stronger than ever he gets the feeling that time has rewound. Twenty years ago the occasional sound of Merlin's voice in his ear had been his only connection to Kingsman, to a world where sane people lived and breathed, where he didn't spend every moment of every day pretending to be someone he was not. It had been their first mission together, the first time Merlin acted as his handler. Their friendship had been forged during those long months, despite the fact that before then he had only met Merlin in person three times.

Completely unaware of any of this, Cassandra eyes him up and down. "You look good, Harry."

For half a heartbeat he thinks he's been made. Then he remembers that she always called him that. It's just how she is, always seeking another way to demonstrate power over someone. He was never Henry to her, rather always the diminutive. Had he told her that his name was Thomas, she would have called him Tommy.

But woe to anyone who ever made the foolish mistake of calling her Cassie.

"Thank you," he replies. The courtesy is a reflex, but it's self-defense, too. She is always dangerous, but never more than when she feels she's been slighted somehow.

"You've aged well," she says. "Betrayal obviously agrees with you."

"Galahad, you need to disengage," Merlin urges. " _Now_."

Harry couldn't agree more. "It was good to see you again, Cassandra," he says. He keeps his tone carefully neutral. Polite. Still a gentleman. "Take care of yourself."

He's barely started to turn away when she says, "Who's your friend?"

Harry tenses up even more. She can do what she likes with him -- she certainly intends to try, he can see that plain as day -- but she better stay away from Eggsy. She better not even _think_ about Eggsy.

He doesn't look away from her. To glance up now at Eggsy is the worst thing he could possibly do.

"I don't know who you mean," he says.

Her eyes narrow slightly. "That was a touching moment," she says. "That little toast by the punch bowl. I was quite moved."

Harry's blood runs cold. He's known from the moment he heard her voice that he will have to kill her. But the thought of her getting anywhere near Eggsy makes him want to wrap his hands around her throat and strangle her right here and now in front of Hollywood's best and brightest. Whatever it takes to keep Eggsy safe.

To her face though, he only feigns a moment of puzzlement before comprehension supposedly dawns. "Oh," he says. "Mr. Kensington. Yes. We met in the hotel bar yesterday. I hadn't realized he would be here."

Cassandra is staring at him with obvious disbelief. Harry smiles a little. "One little arrest for treason and you see conspiracies everywhere. I can assure you Mr. Kensington and I were merely raising a glass to London."

It's taking a risk, mentioning her arrest with such irreverence. But it works, as he thought it would. He's distracted her from any thought of Eggsy; her attention is now solely focused on him.

Twenty years have passed, but he still knows this dance.

She moves in closer. Just a single step, but it brings her near enough to touch. She leans in and takes hold of his arm just above the elbow. Time has done nothing to diminish her strength; she grips him hard enough to bruise.

"I know it was you," she says quietly, her voice just above a stage whisper. She pauses long enough to look him in the eye, making sure he can see just how serious she is.

There is no way to free himself from her grasp without drawing everyone's attention. And Harry is –- no, Henry DeVere is -– first and foremost a gentleman. So he does nothing. He merely stands still and lets her dig her fingers into his arm, and he smiles politely at her.

After a long moment, satisfied that he's got the message, Cassandra moves back a little. She doesn't let go of his arm, though. Her painted nails trail down his sleeve, glide over the onyx cufflink at his wrist, then capture his left hand. She holds it up, and her lips curl upward. "Still have it, I see."

Her thumb presses on the scar on his hand, a thin crescent-shaped mark between the base of his thumb and the last knuckle of his forefinger. It's greatly faded with age; most days he doesn't even see it. Eggsy asked about it when they first started sleeping together, when they were still learning each other's bodies and every scar was a new discovery.

 _It was an old mission_ , he had said. _Not very pleasant at the time, but hardly life-threatening._

"Yes," he says tightly. He doesn't try to pull away. He knows how futile it would be. Nor does he want to cause a scene. Especially not when he knows, even without looking, that Eggsy is across the room, watching all this very carefully. "That tends to happen when you stab someone."

Cassandra laughs as though he's just told the funniest joke she's heard in years. "Oh Harry, you make it sound so dramatic. It was only a nail file."

_Something to remember me by, darling. Wouldn't want you to forget me while I'm gone._

The laughter dies away as suddenly as it came. "What about that one?" She looks at the barely-there scar on his forehead. "Who'd you betray to get that?"

"I've betrayed no one," Harry says sharply. He does pull his hand back this time, but only because Cassandra lets him.

" _Henry DeVere_." She says the name with a sneer, the mask of civility slipping for just a moment. "Did you know you only exist on paper? Well, of course you do." She stares at him. "Did you really think I wouldn't try to find you?"

He's not surprised to hear it. What _is_ surprising is the sudden jolt his heart makes, almost as though he were afraid of her.

"Who are you really?" she says. "MI:6? Were you one of them all along?"

"I think it's time for us to say good-night," Harry says. They're starting to attract the attention of the people standing nearest them. And he can feel Eggsy's stare burning into him from all the way across the room, although he still doesn't dare even glance in that direction. But this has to end, and it has to end now.

"I thought we might catch up," he says in tones of polite umbrage, "but I can see that isn't going to happen. So I will simply wish you the best, and say good-night." He inclines his chin, nothing near as formal as a courtly bow, but close enough for Henry DeVere.

His heart pounding, he turns around and walks away.

He half-expects her to call after him. But she doesn't. She watches him go, though. He can feel her eyes on him as he moves through the crowd, his skin crawling beneath her stare.

Fuck, he needs to wash his hands.

He barely makes it three steps, though, before common sense and his training intervenes. He can't just walk out of here. Not before he knows what he's up against. Cassandra surely didn't come here alone tonight. Even now he is almost certainly being watched.

And then there is Eggsy to consider. If he leaves now, Eggsy will follow him. Part of him wants to do it, just walk out and let Eggsy follow after. At least that way he would be certain Eggsy is safe. But he can't take that risk. He feels fairly confident that he succeeded in getting her mind off Eggsy and that moment in front of the punch bowl, but one misstep now is all it will take to undo his efforts. If they are seen sharing so much as a single glance, it will all be over with. She will be on Eggsy within a heartbeat.

And that is one thing he cannot -– _will not_ -– allow to happen.

Just beyond a young actor who is supposedly the next big thing in Hollywood, Harry stops and gazes out at the crowd. For a moment he sees them all, the glittering jewels, the falsely bright smiles, the greedily curious faces – then it all blurs into a meaningless haze of insignificance.

He knows what he has to do now.

With any luck, it will be over and done with quickly. He might even be able to stick to their original schedule and return to London tomorrow. It's possible.

But for that to happen, he has to start moving right now.

He glances about, checking to make sure no one is close enough to overhear. Then he says, "Merlin, I need you to do something for me."

"Already on it," Merlin replies. "Her invitation is actually as a plus one. She came here with one of the Senators."

That is unwelcome news. "She's picking up right where she left off. Only this time it's American secrets she's looking to sell." He pauses. "When did she get out of prison?"

"Eight months ago," Merlin says. "After V-Day."

Harry nods to himself. Of course. A lot of people died when Richmond Valentine unleashed his "neurological wave" across the globe. Businesses around the world failed overnight without the people to staff them. Places that had to remain open, like hospitals -– and prisons –- suddenly found themselves terribly short-staffed, but with no choice but to keep soldiering on as usual. In Britain and other countries, the prison system had found at least a temporary solution to the problem by releasing those prisoners deemed to be little threat to society, so the surviving guards and staff could concentrate on the more dangerous inmates who remained in lockup.

So Cassandra Prescott had been released, despite having been tried and convicted of treason for selling classified information to foreign countries. Harry doesn't know how she found her way to New York or what she is doing here, nor does he care. Those are questions for another day. The answers don't really matter.

Only the solution matters.

"Tell Eggsy that he is not to return to the hotel tonight. _Not under any circumstances._ Is that clear?"

Merlin hesitates for half a second. "You're not planning on doing what I think you're planning on doing, are you?"

"Then don't think about it," Harry advises.

It's good advice. He would do well to take it himself.

"Galahad." Merlin pauses again. "Harry."

Before he can overthink it, Harry reaches up and pushes at the bridge of his glasses, sliding them further up his nose -- and severing all communication with Kingsman.

****

"Gawain."

The voice comes over his glasses, and it's rarely been more welcome. "What the fuck is going on?" Eggsy demands.

He's standing near a buffet table practically groaning with little appetizers sitting on their own silver serving dishes. Just two minutes ago he watched Harry walk out without even glancing at him. And before that…

He has no idea who the woman in the black dress is, but watching them, it had been obvious to Eggsy that she and Harry knew each other. Less obvious was the fact that Harry was uncomfortable in her presence. Eggsy is certain that no one else would have picked up on it. He only recognised the signals because of how well he knows Harry.

When she took hold of Harry's arm, then his hand, Eggsy had almost said fuck it to his mission, walked over to them and engaged. He can't explain his reaction; all he knows is that it had filled him with a deep sense of anxiety to see her touching Harry.

Now the woman is off on the other side of the room, dancing with someone who looks like a politician. She's smiling at her partner, but like when she smiled at Harry, it's for show only.

And now Harry is gone.

"You need to leave the premises _now_ ," Merlin says. "Go quietly, and do _not_ draw attention to yourself."

"What the fuck is going on?" Eggsy says again, a little louder this time.

"Don't talk to me!" Merlin snaps in his ear. "The last thing we need is for people to see you talking to no one."

Eggsy stiffens up. He knows even without asking that by "people" Merlin means the woman in the black dress. He wants to look in her direction again, but he doesn't dare. He has the feeling that that would be a very bad idea.

She's looking at him. He knows it. He can feel the heavy weight of her stare.

He has no idea how this night went pear-shaped so damn fast, but he trusts Merlin, and so he just nods, knowing Merlin will see his assent through the motion of the view through his glasses. Then he begins to make his way through the crowd.

"Do not under any circumstances return to the hotel," Merlin orders. "Take a cab, but not one that pulls up for you. You're going to have to steal one out from under someone else, I'm afraid."

Eggsy nods again. He's out in the hallway now.

"Take the lift down, but stay in a group," Merlin advises.

Eggsy can't help it. He looks around. He doesn't see anyone who seems obviously interested in him. If he's being followed or watched, it isn't readily apparent. But something is clearly going on, and whatever it is, it's pretty fucking serious, judging by Merlin's tone.

And Harry is nowhere in sight…

"Where's Harry?" he murmurs without moving his lips.

"Don't worry about him," Merlin says. "Get yourself out of there first."

Eggsy clenches his jaw, but does as he's told. He joins a group of people who shuffle onto the lift together. Not one of them looks over twenty years old, and they're all incredibly drunk.

"Who is she?" he asks. The drunk people are all talking and laughing loudly; none of them will notice if he's holding a conversation with thin air.

"Tell the cab to take you to LaGuardia Airport," Merlin instructs. "There's a lounge in one of the terminals that's locked. The sign says it's for Gold Members Only. The passcode for you to get in is 429246."

Eggsy rolls his eyes; it's his code name as it appears on a numeric keypad. Not very original.

"The Kingsman jet will pick you up," Merlin continues. "The pilot—"

The lift doors open and the drunk people all stumble off. Eggsy follows them. The lobby is large, but one practiced look reveals that there is nobody here waiting for him, neither friend nor foe.

"No can do," he says as he crosses the lobby.

"I'm sorry?" Merlin sounds surprised.

"I ain't leavin' without Harry," Eggsy says. He can't believe he has to say it out loud. He thought Merlin knew him better than that.

"You may not have a choice," Merlin replies.

Shocked into silence, Eggsy drifts outside behind the drunk kids. Despite the late hour, the city is so lit up that it doesn't even seem like night. It's chilly out, and everything gleams with a layer of wet, although it's not drizzling anymore.

"What the fuck does that mean?" he says. He still can't believe how fast everything is happening. Just five minutes ago he was at a party being thrown by one of the greatest acting couples in Hollywood. Just fifteen minutes ago he was watching Harry turn white as a sheet as a strange woman in a black dress came up behind him and started talking to him.

And just twenty minutes ago he was standing in front of a punch bowl and feeling the happiest he's been in over a week.

"It means exactly what I said," Merlin says. "Get to the airport. That's your job right now."

"No," Eggsy says. "My job is to find Harry so we can go home together."

"Your _job_ ," Merlin says tersely, "is to stay alive. Is that understood?"

Once again Eggsy is too bewildered to respond. What the _fuck_ is going on here?

"I can explain everything," Merlin says. It sounds like he's trying to stay calm; Eggsy can hear him breathing in deep. "And I will. But I need you to come in, Eggsy."

The use of his real name is what does it. The pieces fall into place, and suddenly Eggsy feels like the world's biggest fucking idiot.

"He went to go kill her, didn't he?"

Merlin doesn't answer right away. When he does, his voice is heavy. "I don't know," he admits. "He's deactivated the feed. But yes, I think so."

"Fuck," Eggsy breathes. He looks around at the people walking past on the pavement, the traffic on the streets, the tall buildings of the city. This enormous city, where Harry could be anywhere.

"Get to the airport," Merlin says. "Galahad will join you there once he's… If he can. This is standard procedure on an abort. Even if he doesn't make contact, he'll know that."

"And if he don't show?" Eggsy asks. He doesn't want to ask it. He doesn't even want to think about it, what he'll do if Harry never shows up, if this horrid party is doomed to be the last time he ever sees Harry alive.

"We'll give him a few hours, and then I'll have to bring you in alone," Merlin says. "Do you understand?"

"I'm not leaving him," Eggsy vows stoutly. He doesn't care what Merlin says, or the pilot of the Kingsman jet, or even Arthur himself. No way he's abandoning Harry here. No fucking way.

"Hopefully it won't come to that," Merlin says. "There. That cab. Take it."

Eggsy looks, and yes, there's a cab pulling up in response to the hail of an older couple who both look like they're dressed to meet the Queen. He hadn't even seen it, but Merlin had, watching the New York view through the glasses while their wearer was blind to everything but a terrible sense of confusion and loss.

It seems unreal. He and Harry had just made up, damn it. They had toasted and smiled at each other, and everything had suddenly been all right. He had been so fucking excited to come back to the hotel and go to Harry's room, to throw his arms around Harry's neck and kiss him senseless before they pulled each other's clothes off and shagged on the fancy king-size bed.

And now? Now he's ducking beneath the arm of some old bloke and into the backseat of a smelly cab. "Sorry!" he calls, and then he yanks the door shut.

"LaGuardia," he says. And then he remembers his manners. He's supposed to be a gentleman now, after all. "Please."

****

_The party is everything Harry expected. Lots of bored and pretty people pretending to be having a good time as they get steadily drunk. There isn't much room to move about, though, even on a yacht as huge as this one, so they mostly stand in little clusters beside the rail as they drink and gossip and look bored and pretty._

_It's hot as hell today. Even dressed in a fine white linen shirt and trousers, he's sweating. The ice in his drink doesn't stand a chance against the heat, so he's just holding the glass now, sipping occasionally at the watery remnants of his cocktail._

_He's been here for the last three weeks, living in a luxurious villa near the beach, working on his tan and letting the sun lighten his hair. He's 34 that spring, as yet untouched by the relentless march of time. He feels confident in his skills as a Kingsman, and he has no doubts about his ability to bring this mission to a successful and quick close._

_He is also a complete fool._

_He doesn't know this yet though, on this blazingly hot day in Greece. He knows only that Cassandra Prescott has been watching him for the last hour, and that it's time to make his move._

_He catches her eye, then starts to walk toward her. People move aside to let him pass. He's been coolly polite to everyone all day, bordering on rude. For the last hour no one has talked to him at all, preferring more pleasant company to his condescension. He knows Cassandra has seen this._

_She looks at him expectantly as he approaches. "Having a good time?"_

_"No," Harry says honestly._

_"You certainly don't appear to be very popular," she says, one eyebrow lifting slightly._

_"I'm dreadfully bored," Harry replies. "Nor do I care about something as vulgar as popularity."_

_Cassandra smiles a little. "Already we have something in common." She's wearing a gauzy pink dress that constantly blows about her legs in the sea breeze. In one hand she holds an empty glass; she uses it to gesture at the side of the boat. "You could make a swim for it."_

_"Rather tempting," Harry says. He holds out his hand. "Henry DeVere."_

_She shakes it. Her grip is firm, her nails are painted coral. "Cassandra Prescott. You're a long way from home. What brings you to Greece?"_

_"I'm on holiday," Harry says. "But I'm going back to England in two days." So is she. He knows her schedule by heart. "I couldn't find what I was looking for."_

_He waits. Cassandra continues to give him that faint little smile._

_"Normally this is the part where most people ask what I was looking for," Harry prompts._

_"True," Cassandra says. "But I'm not most people."_

_He gives her an appreciative look. "I'm starting to see that."_

_Her smile becomes slightly more genuine. "But seeing as how I'm also dreadfully bored, I'll humor you. What were you looking for, Mr. DeVere?"_

_"Ah," Harry says. "I can't actually tell you. It wouldn't be proper to divulge my secrets too soon." He glances behind him, to the people milling around the yacht in their skimpy outfits. "Especially in a place like this." He looks back at Cassandra. "I've always found that secrets were more appropriate to an intimate setting."_

_Cassandra hums in agreement. Or pretend agreement. Impossible to say which. She's suspicious of him, of course. Spying on one's own country is a dangerous line of work, and paranoia has become her default setting. That's why she hasn't been caught yet. She's very good at what she does._

_Harry goes in for the kill. "I've actually found that type of setting tends to...serve my interests best." He puts the faintest stress on the word "serve", then drops his gaze, standing before her momentarily humble, literally at her service. It's such a change from the almost arrogant persona he's projected all afternoon that he almost expects her to turn on him, to know instantly that she's being played._

_But she doesn't. Her expression doesn't change, but he sees the light flare in her eyes. He has her curiosity aroused now, at the very least._

_She studies him for a moment, then she says, "Get me a drink, Harry. May I call you Harry?"_

_"Of course," Harry says briskly. The moment of humility is long gone. "If I may you call 'milady'."_

_Cassandra smiles. "Oh, I think I like you," she says. She hands him her glass. "Martini. Vodka, not gin."_

_Harry smiles. "Coming right up. Milady." He heads for the bar._

_The whole way there, he can feel the weight of her stare on his back._

****

Waking up is unpleasant. It always is, after being struck unconscious. This is the worst part of it, Harry has always thought. Not the pain of being hit in the first place. Not the _oh fuck_ split-second realization that someone you didn't even know about has snuck up behind you and is about to strike you down.

It's this, this waking up to throbbing pain in your skull. This moment when you move just a little, testing to see if you are restrained – and find out that you are.

He wishes he could say he was surprised.

"So you're awake," Cassandra says, and Harry opens his eyes.

He's on an airplane, which is an unwelcome discovery. It's smaller than the Kingsman jet, but well-appointed. No doubt it belongs to the Senator she accompanied to the party. A private airfield and private plane. It's the only way she could have got him here. No dealing with those minor issues like bringing a gun through security, or explaining why one member of your party is unconscious with blood in his hair from where another member of your party hit him so hard he was instantly knocked out.

God, his head hurts.

His current situation is not good, but he's dealt with far worse. He can't be certain until he checks his pockets, but he's pretty certain the golden Kingsman lighter is no longer there. His belt, shoes, and glasses are gone and his own bowtie is wrapped around his wrists. But his hands are bound in front of him, a sign that she hasn't completely made up her mind about him yet.

Either that or it was just easier to slump him in the aisle seat this way.

He drags in a pained breath. "Where am I? What have you…?" Still playing the role, still innocent Henry DeVere.

Cassandra stands in the aisle, staring at him. She's still wearing the black dress from the party. Her hair is starting to fall from its careful styling, though; he very much hopes it's from the effort of hauling his unconscious form around, hopes even more that she's pulled a muscle in her back or something equally painful, something to hamper her movements and give him an advantage.

"Who are you?" she asks. "I'm going to give you this one chance to tell me now, while you can still do so with dignity."

Harry looks around, although it hurts a lot to move his head. He stops when he sees a short man standing a few rows behind him. Even after twenty years, he recognizes the face of Carlo Rotelli, her driver and bodyguard. Carlo's lost some hair and gained some weight, but he still looks at Harry with the same thinly-veiled loathing that he always did.

There's a gun in Carlo's hand, which is another total non-surprise. No doubt it's the same gun that was used to knock him unconscious back in New York.

Anger curls deep in his chest and adds to the pounding headache behind his eyes. He can hate them both all he wants, but ultimately he has no one to blame but himself for what's happened. He let the sight of Cassandra stir up old emotions he had thought long forgotten. On top of that he had been worried for Eggsy's safety, and he hadn't been as careful as he ought to have been. It must have been ridiculously easy for Carlo to sneak up behind him and knock him out.

It's a mistake he doesn't plan to make again.

He turns back around to face Cassandra. "You kidnapped me."

Cassandra ignores this. " 'I practiced,' you said, and I believed you. I fucking _believed_ you. Because I wanted to believe that you were for real. That you were with me not because of what I could do for you, but because of what you could do for me."

Harry doesn't respond. He could tell her that this is not real either, and nothing to base a relationship on. But there's no point. She won't listen. She only wants to hear him say one thing right now.

That single-minded determination is one thing that clearly hasn't changed over the years. He knows perfectly well that she intends to hurt him in order to make him talk. She'll do anything to make him say what she wants to hear.

"Who _are_ you?" she repeats, low and vicious. Her eyes burn bright with her hatred for him. Harry wants to tell her that she's twenty years too late -- he got to that dark place way ahead of her. "I told myself for ages that it couldn't have been you. I told myself that you went into town and when you came back you saw the police were all over, and being the coward you always were, you just ran away. Until I finally realized the truth. It was you. It had always been you."

He doesn't say anything to that. He glances over his shoulder again to where Carlo is standing, assessing the gun aimed at the back of his head. He can be out of his seat before Carlo can fire, but that's as far as he will be able to get. Cassandra is standing just far enough away that he can't reach her without taking a couple steps forward. Steps Carlo won't let him take.

"And to think I had you," she says. "I actually _had_ you. If I hadn't fallen for your bullshit, I would have had the truth from you then." She's practically spitting with anger, no doubt wishing she could turn the clock back to that dark autumn night twenty years ago. "You would have told me everything."

Harry knows he shouldn't let himself be goaded, but he can't help it. "No," he says calmly. "I wouldn't have."

And that's it, then. No more games. No more pretending.

The relief of it is indescribable. To be able to look her square in the eye, to be Harry Hart again, not that coward DeVere – she was right about that much, at least.

The difference it makes is astonishing. He has no idea where he is. Kingsman has no idea where he is. She's going to torture him and then kill him. And yet he feels amazingly calm. He can face her now without flinching.

He's sitting here as her prisoner, with his hands bound and blood in his hair. But for the first time since they met on that long-ago hot May afternoon when he gave himself up to her, he has all the power.

Cassandra must see something of that in his face, because her expression darkens and she looks around, one hand opening and closing on empty air. Harry tenses up, thinking she might skip the rest of the pleasantries and just start hurting him right now. Clearly she wants to.

She looks back at him. "Maybe not," she says. "But I bet I can change that." She covers the space between them in two swift strides and slaps him. She's still incredibly strong; she hits him hard enough to rock his head to the side. The pain is literally blinding, and it's all he can do not to cry out. By the time he's able to see again, blinking past the blurred double vision, she's moved back, well out of reach. 

It's frustrating as hell. He's just lost what was probably the best chance he was going to get. Worse, now that he's seen her in action, he has to admit that there is obviously nothing physically wrong with her. No pulled muscles, no weakness of age or time. She is still a force to be reckoned with.

But that's all right, Harry thinks.

So is he.

*****

After three hours, Merlin says he's sending the pilot up to get him.

"No," Eggsy says flatly. He's been going out of his skull just sitting here doing nothing, but he'll stay here all night if that's what it takes. No way he's leaving New York without Harry.

"Eggsy." Here on Kingsman territory (which is a really weird thing to be saying, considering that there are thousands of people just outside that door, in the airport) there is no need for things like code names. "Harry knows the procedure. He hasn't shown up or made contact yet, and time's up. That means _you_ need to get home. Now."

Eggsy shakes his head. "No. No fuckin' way." He looks around at the flatscreen TV on the wall; the sound is muted so he can't hear what the CNN reporter is saying. There's a small kitchenette with everything a traveler could need, comfortable chairs and even a Murphy bed tucked into the wall. There's also a small armory filled with the basic Kingsman gear, including two suits. Not bespoke, of course, but sized to fit most men, in case of an emergency.

It's nice to know little havens like this exist, even if this one happens to be smack in the middle of LaGuardia Airport. Less nice to know he's only here because he needs a safe place to sit and wait.

"If it was me out there," he continues, "you think Harry would just leave me?"

"Yes," Merlin says right away. "I know he would."

"Bullshit," Eggsy says. He knows Merlin is just saying that to get him to agree to leave. Well, it ain't happening. He'll fight the pilot, whoever he is, if he has to. He kinda hopes he won't have to, though.

"Eggsy, you need to come home," Merlin says.

"You gonna tell me who she is?" he asks. "Why Harry went after her?" He's tired of being kept in the dark and shoveled shit, of having explanations dangled in front of him. He's worried for Harry, and a little for himself, too. He's tired, not having fully adjusted yet to the difference in time zones – for him it feels like the middle of the morning, like he's been awake all night.

He wants some fucking answers.

"Her name is Cassandra," Merlin says. "And I promise I will tell you everything I can, but I can't do that until you come in."

"No deal," Eggsy says. Clever of Merlin to not give her last name, so he can't do something as simple as Google her.

"You talk as though it were a choice," Merlin says.

Eggsy stares at the locked entrance to the lounge. Beyond that door are thousands of people just going about their business. Hoping they make their connecting flight. Looking for a map. Cursing how expensive it is to buy bottled water at the airport. None of them are wondering what happened to the man they love and why he hasn't done something as simple as touch his glasses even once in the last three hours, just enough to let people know he's all right.

_Goddamnit, Harry. Don't do this. Don't you fucking do this to me. Not again._

"Come home," Merlin says quietly. "I'll give you all the information, and we can decide what to do next. I can't help you if you won't come in."

"Did you tell the Americans?" Eggsy asks. He's only met one American Kingsman agent before. She turned out to be pretty cool, but he doubts they're all like that. They'll probably be pissed off that they have to stop what they're doing to hunt down one lost Englishman.

"Yes," Merlin says. "As luck would have it, there are three Kingsman agents in the city right now. They're all helping with the search."

But will they find a body, or will they find Harry and Cassandra whoever-she-is? Assuming they're even looking in the right place. A person can get pretty far with a three-hour head start.

"Fuck," he groans. He's gonna drive himself batshit crazy if he keeps thinking about that kind of stuff. But he can't help it. There's only two reasons Harry hasn't tapped his glasses and activated the feed. Either someone has taken them from him; or he physically can't, because he's tied up or unconscious.

(There's a third option there, of course, but Eggsy refuses to even think about that one.)

He doesn't know what to do.

He's gotta get out, he decides. Enough of this sitting around doing nothing. He should never have agreed to hide out here. He needs to be looking for Harry. He'll go back to the building where the party was held. Start with the doorman, the caterers, anybody who might have been in a position to see someone sneaking around, someone in a place they oughtn't have been. Even in that room full of glittering pretty people, Harry had stood out. Surely someone will remember seeing him. If not, a place like that will have had security cameras. He'll find a way to hack into their feed, see if he can spot Harry that way.

He's nearly at the door when Merlin speaks in his ear again. "Eggsy. I need you to get on that plane _now_."

"I already told you—" Eggsy starts.

"Listen to me, for fuck's sake!" Merlin snaps. "According to our records, Cassandra still owns an estate in Surrey. We sent Lancelot out there a couple hours ago, and she's just informed me that there is a sudden flurry of activity at the house. Now you need to stop fucking around and _get back here_."

Eggsy blinks. His right hand is still outstretched, reaching for the door knob. "But…" He shakes his head. "They can't be back yet. It's only been three hours."

"Of course not," Merlin says. "But now we know where she's headed."

Eggsy lowers his arm back to his side. He wants to believe Merlin is right, but still… Something isn't right here. "But if she knows who Harry is, she's gotta know that we know where she lives."

"No, that's just it," Merlin replies. "She _doesn't_ know who Harry is. She never did. She only knew him as Henry DeVere."

That makes a little more sense. He had been thinking that maybe this Cassandra person knew who Harry really was, and had called him out on his strange appearance at a party under a different name. It hadn't made much sense, especially given Merlin's frantic instructions for him to leave, but it had been the only thing he could think of that remotely made sense.

"And right now," Merlin says grimly, "she also thinks he's the person who betrayed her to the authorities twenty years ago."

A chill runs down Eggsy's spine. Okay. Yeah. He gets it now. Whoever she is, whatever she did, Cassandra only knows half the story. But she has Harry now – and a hell of a lot of suspicions.

And she won't stop until she has the whole story.

****

_Her home is beautiful, an old manor that is over two hundred years old. The cost of maintaining the house and grounds must be astronomical, and Harry mentally adds five million pounds to Kingsman's estimate of Cassandra's wealth._

_"Do you like it?" she asks. They arrived back in England yesterday morning; already the heat of Greece is a thing of the past. Today she's in a cashmere jumper so soft it's practically begging to be touched, and jeans that fit like a second skin. She stands slightly apart from him, the better to see his reaction._

_"It's lovely," Harry says honestly. It's not the home for him, but he can see the appeal._

_"The former owners called it Pemberley," Cassandra says._

_Harry's read his Jane Austen. He knows exactly what to say. "I can see why. But I won't be calling you Mr. Darcy, if it's all the same to you."_

_Cassandra smiles, and he knows he passed the test. "Nor would I want you to," she assures him. Genuine good humor lights her eyes. "Besides, I've grown to like being called milady."_

_He knows she has. It's why he uses the term every chance he can, without overdoing it. He gives her a smile, then looks back at the house. "And what do you call it?"_

_"Nothing," Cassandra says shortly. "It's just a house. It doesn't get a fucking name."_

****

It's almost six o'clock by the time Eggsy arrives at Kingsman HQ. It's the dinner hour, but there's no way he can think of eating anything. He's been awake for over twenty-four hours at this point, and although he's loosened the knot in his tie, he's still wearing the suit he put on for the party. His eyes feel heavy and full of sand, and his stomach is tied up in knots. He tried to sleep on the plane, guessing that it would be his only chance for a while, but he was too anxious to do more than doze.

Harry still hasn't made contact with Kingsman.

Merlin looks nearly as tired as Eggsy feels. Dark stubble shadows his jaw and cheeks. But he walks swiftly through the halls, no doubt driven by the same worry as Eggsy. "There's no news from Lancelot. She's still at Cassandra's house in Surrey, but I doubt think she'll find anything there."

"Cassandra knew we'd be watching," Eggsy says glumly. He's known it for ages, it feels like, his heart sinking a little more with every hour that passed by with no word from Roxy or Merlin. He just hadn't wanted to admit it. "She thinks Harry's a spy, probably MI:6, am I right? All that activity at her house was just a distraction. Keep us away from wherever she really is."

"Yes," Merlin says. His lips thin out.

Eggsy bites back the impatient questions that spring to his lips. What else is Kingsman doing to find Harry? What orders has Arthur given? He remembers what Harry told him on that last day before Kentucky. _Kingsman only condones the risking of a life to save another._ Does this count? Where exactly do rescue missions fall in terms of importance?

He worries about Roxy out there alone, doing her duty and keeping watch over that house in Surrey. But who is in that house watching _her_?

"We're doing everything we can," Merlin says as they walk through the old manor. "But frankly, there isn't much we _can_ do. Not until we know where they've gone."

Fevered impatience seizes Eggsy. How the fuck did everything happen so fast? He still can't believe it, how one moment he could be standing there with Harry, smiling and full of hope, and the next minute running for his life from a phantom he still doesn't even understand. And how can Kingsman not _know_? What the fuck does that even mean?

"But you're gonna find out, right?" he says. It sounds kinda pitiful to his own ears.

"We're going to do everything we can," Merlin says, and he sounds as quietly encouraging as he did on that day when Harry lay in the coma and Eggsy came to visit him. It should make him feel better, but it doesn't. Because given a choice between the awfulness of seeing Harry lying there so still, and this terrible not-knowing what's happening to him right now, he'll take the coma any day.

"So are you gonna tell me who she is now?" he asks.

"I can do better than that," Merlin says. He stops before a set of oak double doors. "I'm going to show you."

Eggsy follows him into the library, where he spends far more of his time than he expected when he signed up for Kingsman. Most of a mission is research, he's learned, studying up on his target and the nasty shit they're doing. There's almost always somebody in here, another agent or an analyst or two, but today the room is deserted.

"It was twenty years ago," Merlin says. He walks over to a laptop and opens it up.

Twenty years. Fuck. It's not like Eggsy ever really forgets the age difference between Harry and himself – and this week it's certainly been more on his mind than ever – but he still needs a moment to process this. Every time he hears phrases like that just casually dropped into conversation, it gives him a _holy shit_ moment. Twenty years ago he was five years old and Lee Unwin was still alive. Twenty years ago Harry was on a mission for Kingsman, never dreaming that one day it would come back to haunt him.

"It was an extremely demanding mission," Merlin says. He taps away at the laptop, entering a password to access a list of files Eggsy has never seen before. "Harry won a commendation for it -– and three months' enforced holiday. He wasn't even allowed to set foot on the premises. Even his appointments with Dr. Ng happened at a neutral, off-site location."

Appalled, Eggsy stares at Merlin. He's heard of agents being given paid leave after a particularly dangerous mission, but never as long as three months. And the appointments with the Kingsman therapist… 

Fucking hell.

It was Harry, he suddenly realizes. The agent who had that awful undercover mission all those years ago, the reason Kingsman has the rule in place about not going undercover again too soon after a previous mission. It's not just a rumor, something Roxy heard and passed on to him one day out of curiosity. It's very real. The rule exists because of Harry –- and that woman at the party.

The weight of the truth crashes into him and threatens to buckle his knees. Those terrible things really happened. And right now, more terrible things are happening.

And he never got the chance to make sure things were right with Harry. It had seemed that way, standing there talking of fools in front of that punch bowl, but it hadn't been enough. He had been looking forward to the rest of the night, when they could finally be together and talk – and hopefully do more.

Now he might never get to do those things. Harry is gone and no one knows where. Harry's last words to him might be that invitation to come up to his hotel room later, before excusing himself and walking away. Maybe out of Eggsy's life forever.

He can't bear the thought of it. It can't end this way. It can't.

It all comes back to Cassandra, he thinks. It was her twenty years ago, and now she's come back. If he's going to sort this out and find Harry, he has to start with her.

"What the fuck happened?" he pleads.

"Cassandra Prescott," Merlin says. Faint lines appear on his forehead as he gazes off into the distance, remembering that long-ago mission. "She sold arms to terrorists, but that wasn't our main concern. MI:6 had a leak, someone providing information to another source, who in turn was selling that information to various foreign countries. Kingsman already knew what MI:6 didn't – that Cassandra Prescott was the seller. What we didn't know was her source within the agency, where she was getting her information from."

"So you sent Harry in," Eggsy says.

"No," Merlin says. He looks at Eggsy. "He volunteered."

Not getting the difference, Eggsy shrugs a little, mouth turned down in an exaggerated frown. _So what?_

"Arthur refused to assign the mission to anyone," Merlin says. "He was adamant that it had to be a volunteer. The problem was, no one wanted it. We all knew it would be very difficult. Once it was decided that Kingsman would intervene, Cassandra's file was made available to all the agents. For a few days it was all anyone could talk about, her and her lifestyle.

"People didn't last long around her, but the ones who did were extremely loyal. There would be no buying or blackmailing them. Someone was going to have to get close enough to her to earn her trust. And that meant months of undercover work."

Merlin pauses, no doubt remembering those days of whispers in the hallways. Eggsy can just imagine it: _Are you going to do it? Me, hell no! What about you? Are you fucking crazy?_

Or probably not. Most likely it came down to a single meeting, the old Arthur at the head of the not-so Round Table above the shop, the other Kingsman agents there either in person or via holo-conference. No one daring to look Arthur in the eye. A heavy silence in the room as every man present waited for someone else to accept the mission. Harry and Bedivere and Kay, but not Merlin or Percival. The Lancelot who came before James, and Chester King in his original code name, not yet Arthur and a traitor in his own right.

"In the end Harry said he would do it. He knew it had to be done, and he had never turned away from duty before." Merlin sighs, a barely-there exhalation. "It was the mission that made his reputation as the best agent Kingsman had, but if I had the chance to do it all over again, I'd never let him go."

Questions race through Eggsy's brain, each one more demanding and confused than the one that came before. In the end he blurts out the first one that comes to mind, the first thing he'll always think of in a situation like this, thanks to Dean. "What the fuck does that mean, you talked about her lifestyle? Was it drugs?"

Merlin shakes his head. "No. Nothing that simple, I'm afraid." Off Eggsy's impatient look, he adds, "Cassandra liked to hurt people. She was a woman in a dangerous field, and she got off on it. She craved power, and more people to bend to her will." He pauses. "And she hated England, although we didn't know why at the time."

And Harry, the quintessential English gentleman, had delivered himself into her hands. It's too horrible to even think about.

"So what happened?" Eggsy asks. Obviously Cassandra had been arrested. When he was still in New York, Merlin had said, _She thinks he's the person who betrayed her to the authorities twenty years ago._ So that much had happened. But somewhere along the line she had been released. And now she had found her way back into Harry's life.

"I'll let you find out," Merlin says. He gestures to the laptop. On the screen, a list of files covers the entire page. They're video files, some of them quite large. "I don't expect you to watch them all. But get familiar with her. If you can get into her head, see something we've missed, maybe we can figure out where she's gone."

And if not, at least he's out of their hair, Eggsy thinks. Safely tucked away here, no one's target, but also not bothering anyone, demanding answers they don't have.

He doesn't want to watch those old videos. He doesn't want to see what happened twenty years ago between Harry and this woman who sold out her own country. But it's better than doing nothing. And at least this way he can maybe help, after all.

"Okay," he says. He pulls the chair out and sits down.

"I'll be here if you need me," Merlin says.

Eggsy nods. He feels daunted by the task he's been given, but more than that, he just doesn't want to watch. Not after the things he's just heard.

Merlin is almost at the door when Eggsy stops him. "Wait!"

"Yes?" Merlin turns back around.

"What about her accomplice?" he asks. He figures there must be a good reason why this isn't a lead they're pursuing, but he needs to ask anyway. He has to be sure. "The mole or whoever in MI:6 who was giving her the top secret shit in the first place. Did you try them?"

Merlin shakes his head. "They died four years ago, when they were still in prison. Heart attack."

Yeah, that's a good reason, all right. Still… Eggsy gives him a look. "Natural?"

"As far as we can tell," Merlin replies.

"Okay," he sighs.

"I'll let you know if we hear anything," Merlin promises. He lingers for a moment, then he's gone, and Eggsy is left alone in the library.

It's very quiet in here. Eggsy looks around at the desks and cubicles where he's used to seeing other people, and takes a deep breath. He tries not to imagine what Harry is doing right now, or what's being done to him. He'll seriously go mad if he gives in to those thoughts.

He's got to get started. Merlin gave him a job to do. And if he can find something, anything, that will help them figure out where Harry is, then he's only wasting time just sitting here.

He studies the list of files on the screen. They all have long names and contain the same number; a tag identifying which mission it is within the Kingsman database. The other numbers are a mystery at first, until he realizes they go up in sequence, and then he understands that they signify the date that particular file was recorded. The range is from April 1995 to October 1995. Six months. Over half a year.

"Fuck it," Eggsy says. He clicks on the first file. 

He's not sure what he expected. What he gets is Harry Hart, twenty years younger. His hair is styled the same, but there are no lines on his face yet. He sits at a table very much like the one above the shop on Savile Row, wearing a light grey suit paired with a dark grey tie. His hands are clasped on the table in front of him.

"Today is Monday, April 17, 1995," Harry says. He gazes calmly into the camera. "In two hours I am leaving for Athens, Greece, to begin my preparations. I understand that this mission will be dangerous, and require long periods of isolation while under deep cover. I understand that there is considerable risk to my health and safety, and I state for the record that I accept these risks freely of my own consent, and I will not hold Kingsman liable for any harm I might incur on the course of this mission." He pauses, and for a moment he almost looks like he might smile. "Galahad out."

The video ends.

Eggsy sits back in his chair. He's never once been asked to make such a statement before accepting a mission. He knows Roxy hasn't, either.

"What the fuck, Harry," he breathes. "What the fuck did you get yourself into?"

The date of the next file is nearly three weeks later, in early May. The difference is startling. Instead of the quiet elegance of a Kingsman background, he's looking out at a beautiful blue ocean. He's on a boat, he understands right away. Or rather, Harry is.

The view changes, and now he's looking at the people on the boat. It's actually a yacht, huge and white and sliding through the water. There are lots of people clustered at the railings, all holding drinks, all looking painfully rich and bored.

Eggsy watches, and it's like the day he watched Harry in the church in Kentucky. He's held spellbound by the images on the screen, and worse, a terrible sense of complete helplessness. Not only can he do nothing about what he's seeing, this time he has the heavy knowledge that these events have already happened. What he's watching happened twenty years ago. There is no changing any of it.

A woman becomes the focus of the view through Harry's glasses. Even though Eggsy only saw her from across the room, it's unmistakably the same woman from the party in New York. She has dark brown hair that's wound in a knot at the back of her head. She's wearing a pink dress that flutters around in the sea breeze. 

And she's watching Harry as he approaches her.

The movement stops. Cassandra Prescott looks straight at Harry, at Eggsy sitting here twenty years later and watching it all with cold dread slowly settling in his bones. "Having a good time?"

"No," Harry replies. For the first time Eggsy realizes just how much this is gonna suck. He can hear Harry's voice and catch glimpses of him, depending on where Harry is looking -- a hand here, the front of his white linen shirt there. But just like on that day in the church, he can't see Harry's face. He's seeing it all through Harry's eyes. 

"You certainly don't appear to be very popular," Cassandra says. She seems amused by this.

"I'm dreadfully bored," Harry replies. "Nor do I care about something as vulgar as popularity."

Cassandra smiles a little. "Already we have something in common." She gestures to the railing with an empty glass. Whatever she's been drinking, she still looks perfectly sober. "You could make a swim for it."

"Rather tempting," Harry says. His hand comes into view, his slender wrist tanned from the sun, and that explains part of those "preparations" he mentioned on the first video. "Henry DeVere."

 _Don't_ , Eggsy wants to say. _Don't do it. Turn around. Run away. Swim if you have to. Just get away from her, Harry. Get the fuck away from her._

But of course Harry does no such thing. Eggsy watches as Cassandra shakes his hand and introduces herself, and that's it. There's no going back.

****

"Harry. Henry. Hennnryyy." She singsongs his name. "Wake uuuup." Her hand pats his cheek. He lets his head loll to the side, the boneless move of someone still deeply unconscious.

It hurts. A lot. His head is throbbing so badly that just lying here is actually all he's capable of right now. Even if the perfect opportunity to take Cassandra out were to present itself, he seriously doubts he would be able to take advantage of it.

She makes a noise of disgust. "You see, this is why I _hate_ using drugs. Impossible to get the dose right!"

"I can wake him up."

That voice belongs to Carlo, her driver, bodyguard, and on-again-off-again lover. Carlo, who had hated Harry for usurping his place, but kept it hidden. Carlo, who would have killed him in a heartbeat if he had ever found out the truth, rather than let any harm come to Cassandra. Carlo, who crept up behind him in New York and struck him down.

Carlo, who got the drop on him exactly like that twenty years ago. One lesson he's clearly failed to learn.

"No!" Cassandra says sharply. "You already hit him too hard. I told you, I need him to be able to talk."

So she still thinks she can make him divulge his secrets. 

He's forced to admit that at this point, she wouldn't need to try very hard. His head is killing him, and he feels faintly nauseous, his thoughts slow and sluggish yet. He doesn't know what she slipped into his drink, but it was highly potent.

"Still nothing from Surrey?" Cassandra asks.

"No," Carlo replies. "No one's come."

The house in Surrey. Oh, he remembers it well. Formerly Pemberley, eventually nothing. For the first few months he had been a visitor only, driving in almost daily from his own house in Buckinghamshire. Kingsman owned that house where he had stayed, although it had been set up under DeVere's name. She had sent her own people there, of course, within the first week of their relationship, setting up bugs all throughout the house. Nothing he did or said was private after that.

"Oh, I'm sure _someone's_ there," she says. "After all, we know little Harry here isn't working alone. Whoever it is, they've probably been there for hours already, staking out the place." There is a long silence. "Find them. Bring them here. Harry was always rather selfish, but he might be more open to persuasion if there's someone else involved."

Carlo walks away. A door opens and closes. Harry wonders who Kingsman sent to keep watch on the Surrey house. Kay, perhaps. Or maybe Lancelot. Whoever it is, he isn't worried for them. They can handle themselves and stay out of Carlo's sight, all while maintaining their surveillance of the house. It's a wasted effort, of course, but Kingsman can't take that chance. They'll keep someone on the estate at all times, just in case.

He hopes desperately that Eggsy is all right. Merlin will have told him to leave the party, and Kingsman protocol would dictate that Eggsy ended up at the safe house at LaGuardia. He might even have gone there at first, confused about the suddenness of everything and Merlin's insistence that the party was no longer safe.

But he most certainly wouldn't have stayed there. So what is Eggsy doing now? Is he still in New York, searching for Harry? Undoubtedly he has learned who Cassandra is by now, but what is he doing about it?

Wherever he is, whatever he is doing, Harry hopes like hell that he is safe. Because if Cassandra or Carlo or anyone associated with her even lays a finger on Eggsy, nothing will spare them from the worst possible death Harry can give them. That is one promise he absolutely means to keep.

Cassandra's heels click on the floor as she walks back and forth. Harry lies still and pretends to be unconscious. It's getting easier to do, as the last lingering effects of the drug wears off.

He has no idea where they are, although he has his suspicions. He was out again long before the plane landed, so he doesn't even know how long the journey was.

She had let him up so he could use the toilet, although she had first insisted that his hands be bound behind him. When he balked, she had just smiled sweetly as Carlo pressed the gun to the back of his head. "I can help you, darling. After all, there's no need for modesty between us."

It was certainly true, but that hadn't stopped him from shying away when she reached for his crotch. Angry and humiliated, he would have made his move then, but Carlo had intervened before he could do anything, landing a brutal punch to his kidneys that had dropped him to his knees with a pained cry.

"Don't even think it," Cassandra had said coldly. "I need you alive, but I don't need you unharmed. How you finish this trip is entirely up to you."

Still on his knees, Harry had clenched his jaw and nodded. He would bide his time. It was the only way to deal with Cassandra. He should have remembered that right from the start, should have been more careful. His failure to remember that was why he was here in the first place.

After the embarrassing bit of business, she had offered him something from the plane's galley. A glass of wine, perhaps? Or a martini? Vodka, of course, still her preferred drink, and there's a reason he only drinks gin martinis now, why he taught Eggsy to make them that way.

Thinking of Eggsy had made his chest tighten up. He could only hope Eggsy had made it safely out of the party, that Cassandra had forgotten about him in her triumph at capturing her prize.

She had held the glass up for him to drink, tipping it so he had no choice but to drink it all or else choke. Fifteen minutes later he had passed out again, cursing Cassandra, Carlo, and himself most of all.

And now he's here – wherever that is – the journey complete. 

Fabric rustles. The air moves and the scent of Cassandra's perfume swells as she kneels down beside him. If he wasn't bound hand and foot, he would go for her throat just now.

"Last time we were here," she says, "you screamed and cried a lot. I realize now that was all for my benefit. 'I practiced,' you said, and shame on me for falling for it."

Harry doesn't move. He just lies there like he's still unconscious. He already knows how he's going to kill her. All he needs is the chance.

At least he knows where he is now, though. He knows it all too well.

"I wonder what will happen this time, though." She makes a quiet sound, almost a laugh. "Oh yes," she says, "I know you're awake. I know you're faking." 

Maybe she knows and maybe she doesn't. Harry steels himself for a slap, something designed to startle him into giving himself away. With the way his head is throbbing, he worries that it won't take much.

She doesn't touch him, though.

"It doesn't matter if you are or not," she says. She sounds completely unconcerned, and he knows then that she's telling the truth. She believed his lies last time; she'll never believe anything he does now. "You can keep your little scheme for now. I don't mind. Because when I'm ready, you're going to give me everything I want."

She stands up again, and now her voice comes from high above him, the way she always liked it. "But it's all right if you don't. It always was more fun to just take what I wanted from you."

She walks out. The door closes.

****

The video is dated June 6, 1995. Almost a full month since Harry met Cassandra and officially began his mission.

It's dinner, an enormous polished table set for two, although it could easily seat twelve. There are candles and elegant china, wine in tall glasses. Cassandra is in white; when Harry raises his wineglass to drink, Eggsy can see the black of his suit jacket.

"I wish you wouldn't go," Harry says.

Cassandra looks at him over her wineglass. "I know," she says. "I think this is now the fourth time you've told me."

"I just don't want to see anything happen to you," Harry says.

"You're worried about me," Cassandra says. It sounds light, almost flirtatious, but her eyes are deadly serious.

"Of course I am," Harry replies. His right hand comes into frame as he pushes some of the food around on his plate. He doesn't eat, though. "You should let me come with you."

"Oh, I don't think so," Cassandra says. "I can handle myself. Besides, your place is here." She smiles. "Waiting for me."

The view through Harry's glasses drops as he looks down, becoming the contents of his plate. It makes Eggsy feel sick to his stomach, even though nothing is really happening. It's the absolute certainty in her voice, and Harry's quick, submissive response. It's the implication that this is a conversation they've had before, that already their roles are firmly set in stone.

"I could keep you safe," Harry says quietly.

Cassandra laughs with delight. "Yes, your fox hunting experience would certainly come in handy."

"I mean it, milady," Harry says. He looks up at her.

Cassandra's amusement – if it was even real, which Eggsy highly doubts – becomes something more serious as she gazes at Harry. "I know you do," she finally says. And either she is an even better actress than Eggsy already knows she is, or she seems to be genuinely touched by Harry's sincerity.

For a moment they just look at each other. Then Harry looks down, and Cassandra says, "You shall just have to give me something tonight to remember you by. Maybe I'll bring out my present again. I know you liked that."

There's a split second when Harry's hand tightens on his fork so hard his knuckles turn white. But his voice is light enough when he says, "I did, milady."

"I rather thought so," Cassandra says, all smug.

Eggsy wants to pick the laptop up and throw it across the room. So far he hasn't had to watch them having sex, but he knows his luck won't last forever. He's not sure he can do it. It's bad enough just knowing that it happened. But to watch her touching Harry, watch them kiss and groan and fuck… No. He can't do it.

"I may be going to Rome later this summer," Cassandra says. She sounds speculative now. It's a carefully-dangled bait, of course, to see what Harry does. "Maybe I'll let you come with me."

Harry looks up at her. "I would like that very much," he says. Eggsy can hear the smile in his voice.

Cassandra makes a pleased sound under her breath, then sips at her wine.

****

_They're in bed when she asks, "Would you kill someone for me?"_

_It's mid-July, and it's stiflingly hot out; he doesn't know yet it, but that record-breaking, scorching summer has only just begun. Harry lies on his stomach, the sheets pushed down around his knees. He won't move until the scratches on his back have stopped bleeding. Cassandra hates it when he messes up the sheets -- and of course he always gets the wet spot._

_Slowly he sits up. He reaches for his glasses, puts them on and activates them with a single touch, and now Kingsman is seeing this, too. "I'm sorry?" he asks._

_She looks at him, as serious as she's ever been. "You keep saying you want to keep me safe," she says. "So I'm asking. Would you kill someone for me?"_

_Harry looks away as though he's uncomfortable. "I don't… That is… Did you have someone in mind?"_

_Cassandra laughs. "I might, at that. But no. I meant in a general sense."_

_He pretends to think about it. He's suspected for some time now that she means to test him, to make sure she can truly trust him. If he passes the test, she will take him with her the next time she goes to meet her source at MI:6. She wants to, he knows that much. She's pleased with him, with the conquest she's made. She just needs to be one hundred percent certain of his loyalty._

_Henry DeVere is utterly besotted with her, of course. Happily and willingly playing the part of the wealthy arrogant suitor on her arm in public, while serving her every need in private. Henry has been in love with her for weeks, and is never happier than when showering her with gifts and his attention._

_Harry Hart though, Harry hates her. Through the weeks of increasing disconnect and stress, he's nursed the bright flame of that hatred. He keeps it locked away, buried deep, but it burns steadily all the same._

_He knows there are bugs planted in the house he keeps. In his car, too. If she sends her own car to pick him up, Carlo reports on everything he says and does. There is nowhere he can be just Harry again. He's always performing, always in the spotlight. Merlin sometimes speaks to him over the glasses, but it's a risk -- they don't know the sensitivity of the bugs. He goes for solitary walks sometimes and he's able to talk with Merlin then, but it's not enough. He feels cut off from Kingsman, from the rest of the world._

_She did that to him, and he hates her for it._

_He hates her for the things she's done to him, for the things she's made him do, for all the things she's still going to make him do. He hates her for being a traitor to England, selling their classified secrets to the highest bidder. And he hates her because if the circumstances had been different, he might have actually loved her and her intelligence, her ruthless determination to do what she wants, her complete disdain for the classism still so prevalent in this country even while she eats it up every time he calls her "milady."_

_For that, for showing him what could have been, he hates her most of all._

_"I suppose," he finally says, playing it slow and reluctant. "If I had no other choice." He looks up at her. "I would do anything to keep you safe, milady. Yes, even that."_

_Her eyes soften. She lays a hand on his cheek, warm and sweet. "Thank you, Harry."_

****

Roxy calls a little after nine o'clock. "Hey, Eggsy."

Eggsy doesn't answer right away. He's tired, his head aches, his eyes are burning, and he wants out of this suit. None of that shit matters, though. All he can think about is Harry.

The things he's seen… _fuck_. No wonder Harry was so fucked up after this mission, and needed three months before he could come back.

Because Eggsy knows. He _knows_ how it feels to hold in all that anger and hatred. He knows how it feels to have it poison you from within. He always had his mum and then Daisy to relieve him of the worst of that crap, but back then Harry had nobody. He could only keep holding it in, keep pretending to be someone he was not, keep doing his duty.

And he's only seen the barest hint of what really happened between Harry and Cassandra, and the abuses Harry suffered. The things he's watched in these videos were the times when Harry had no choice but to keep recording through the glasses, because of context. Because it was a time when Cassandra might at any moment say or do something useful to the mission, might divulge some needed information.

But what about all those other times? Days when there was nothing to record? Nights when there was nothing worth sending to Kingsman?

How much has he not seen?

"Eggsy?"

He gives himself a mental shake and makes himself focus, remember where Roxy is, and the danger she's in. "You still out there?"

"Yeah," she says. "Nothing's happening, though. Percival's coming out in an hour to spell me."

"You shouldn't be talkin' to me," Eggsy says. "Someone's gonna hear you."

"He's too stupid," Roxy replies.

Eggsy blinks at the laptop, not getting it for a moment. Then he sits bolt upright. "Someone's watchin' you?"

"Trying to," Roxy says. She sounds almost cheerful about the whole thing, which would almost offend Eggsy, considering the circumstances, except he knows she's only doing it to try and keep him from brooding. "Don't worry. He's not doing a very good job of it."

 _Or they just want you to think that_ , Eggsy thinks, but doesn't say.

"He's doing sweeps around the house," Roxy says. "It's easy to stay ahead of him. But honestly, I don't think anyone's here. Whatever they did this morning was all just for show."

He had already figured as much, but it still sucks to hear Roxy confirm it. "I shouldn't've left that party," he says miserably. "I should've stayed. Maybe I could've..." The words hang just out of reach, mocking him. If he hadn't been so spooked by what he saw between Harry and Cassandra, if he hadn't been so quick to obey Merlin's orders to leave, if he had had the balls to stick around like he had wanted… "I could've saved him. Stopped her."

"Oh Eggsy." Gone is that false note of cheer. Now Roxy sounds like she does before she gives him a hug. Like she's aching to reach through the distance separating them and be there in person. "You can't know that."

But he does know it. He does. How close was the margin? Had she taken Harry five minutes after he left the party or ten? _Fuck_ if only he had stayed!

"If you had stayed," Roxy says, demonstrating once again her uncanny ability to read his mind, "she might have abducted you, too. And that would have made it far worse for Harry."

In spite of himself, Eggy flinches. That fucking hurts. Mostly because he knows she's right. Harry can handle himself. Throw a kidnapped and probably wounded Eggsy into the mix, though, and all bets are off.

"At least this way he knows you're safe," Roxy finishes.

Eggsy sure as hell hopes so. But the way he sees it, Harry most likely _doesn't_ know. How the hell could he? He had cut communication with Kingsman even before Merlin ordered Eggsy to get out of there. And even if he hadn't, Cassandra could always just lie and tell Harry that she has Eggsy hostage, anyway. Unable to be certain, Harry would have no choice but to believe her.

The thought makes Eggsy's heart clench in his chest. Already he's seen enough of that old mission footage to know that Cassandra won't hesitate to wield any power she has. And if she convinces Harry that she has Eggsy prisoner too, she'll be able to make him do anything she wants.

"Fuck," he whispers.

"Eggsy?" Roxy seems so far away; it's a wonder he can hear her at all.

He wishes she was here with him right now. But she's not, she's in Surrey, putting herself in danger to help him and Harry. The thought jerks him back to reality, hard. "Be careful," he says. The thought of Cassandra getting her hands on Roxy too is enough to make him want to throw things.

"I will," Roxy promises. There's a pause, then she says, more quietly, "How are you holding up?"

She knows, more than anyone, how much he loves Harry. Roxy's been there for his drunken ramblings, his heartfelt texts, his urgent you-can't-tell-anyones. She's probably the only one who has even the slightest idea of the terror he's feeling now.

"What if we don't find him?" he says. "What am I gonna do, Rox?"

"Eggsy, don't—" she starts.

"We was…" He stops, because Roxy doesn't know. He tells her most things, because she's so easy to talk to and she doesn't judge. But he hasn't told her about the awful thing he said to Harry the night he got back from the Moreland mission. He hasn't told her about the week that followed, when they were okay on the outside but still all screwed up on the inside, where it really counted.

"We got in a fight last week," he says, because it's just easier to say it that way than admit to what he had said. "And it was like we made up at the party, but now I don't know, and what if I never get to find out? What if…?"

He can't make himself actually say the words out loud. _What if Harry dies thinking I don't want to be with him?_

It's Kentucky all over again, and Eggsy just cannot, _cannot_ , deal with that.

"What if we never get the chance to make it right?" he says. "What if I don't ever get to –"

"You will," Roxy interrupts. She sounds perfectly calm, the voice of reason. It's exactly what he needs to hear right now. "You will, Eggsy. We'll find him. I promise." 

"I'm gonna kill her," he swears. "I'm gonna fucking kill her. If she even touches Harry..."

"Harry can take care of himself," Roxy says. "He'll be fine. He made it out back then, and he can do it now."

Eggsy sinks into sullen silence. Yeah. He knows that. But what if Cassandra doesn't give him the chance? She's crazy just like Valentine, she could easily just pull out a gun and fire.

Except…he doesn't think she'll do that. Not right away. Merlin said she suspects Harry was the one who betrayed her, but suspicion isn't good enough. She needs to know it. She needs to hear Harry say it.

And that's their best chance right now. That Harry can use Cassandra's greed against her and stall, buy enough time with his silence for Kingsman to find him.

Fucking hell, what a horrible thing to pin his hopes on.

_Hold on, Harry. I'm gonna find you._

****

After he ends the call with Roxy, Eggsy returns to his task. The absolute last thing he wants to do is watch more of these awful videos, but this is his job, and there's no avoiding it. And if there's anything in the videos, anything at all, that will help him figure out Cassandra and where she's taken Harry, then he needs to know.

He sighs. "Fucking get on with it, bruv."

The video dated Aug 31, 1995 is flagged in the system. The flag is red. Eggsy doesn't need to know the specifics of the Kingsman filing system to know this is not a good thing.

With mounting dread, he opens the file. And so Eggsy witnesses Harry make his one and only mistake on that long, terrible mission.

Even without knowing the particulars, he recognizes the setting immediately: a darkened, private room in the back of a club. Thanks to Dean, he's done deals of his own in places like this, with the music thumping through the walls, muted but still there. Never in a club as nice as this one, though. The booth is horseshoe-shaped and quite large; the table is covered with a white linen cloth. An ornate centerpiece sits in the middle, with candles burning low. On three sides of the booth gilt-edged mirrors line the walls, reflecting back the three people currently sitting there.

It's a weird sight, and in that first instant when the video starts, Eggsy almost feels dizzy. He's viewing the scene through Harry's eyes as always, but also straight on, as he would watch a TV show or a movie, the whole thing reflected in the mirrors. It's disorienting, and without really thinking about it, he moves the cursor of his mouse to hover over the pause button on the video player. He has a feeling he's going to need it.

It's a rare opportunity, though, and he revels in the chance to really see the whole picture for once.

Cassandra sits nearest the end of the booth, where she can bolt quickly if necessary. She's wearing a black dress that bares her shoulders. Her hair is down and her lips are very red. The man sitting across from her is young, maybe Eggsy's age. A thick beard covers most of his face, and the watch on his wrist is very expensive.

But it's the third person Eggsy can't stop staring at. This is the first time he's actually been able to _see_ Harry, instead of just the view from Harry's glasses.

It's not a pretty sight. In the four months he's been on this mission, Harry has lost weight. He's in a black suit with a black tie, and his hair is rigidly parted and gelled in place. The guy with the beard fidgets around a little, but Harry sits as still as only as he can, all that smooth violence hidden beneath a layer of deceptive calm. There is nothing in his face to give away what he's thinking. His eyes are dark and impenetrable. He looks like a caricature of himself, like someone pretending to be Harry Hart.

Even in the dim light, Eggsy can see the bruising around his eye.

There is some small talk regarding the weather, and how hot it is. A round of shots is finished, but no one comes to replenish them. Silence falls over the little group, and Eggsy can faintly hear the pounding of music from the front of the club.

Then Cassandra says, "I understand you have something for me."

The guy with the beard, whose name seems to be David, nods. He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a DVD in a plastic jewel case, and sets it on the table between them. "They said you're the one to see."

Cassandra does not smile or acknowledge the flattery. She doesn't even glance at the DVD. "They were right," she says coolly.

David glances at Harry, who continues to sit so still. During the opening round of conversation, he didn't say anything at all. "You know my price?"

"Yes," says Cassandra. Her head tilts slightly to one side. Eggsy watches it in the mirror, and on the left side of the view from Harry's glasses. "But I don't think I'm going to pay it."

David sits up a little at that. "Excuse me?"

"You see, 'they' told me a few things, too," Cassandra says. "About you."

"What'd you hear?" David asks. He's not sweating, not yet, but it's close. He glances at Harry more often now, completely unaware that the true threat to his continued existence is actually the woman he's talking to.

"That you're full of shit," says Cassandra.

That time the silence is more profound. Harry shifts ever so slightly in his seat, putting his right shoulder toward David.

"I have the information you wanted," David says. He licks his lips nervously and looks at the DVD in its case. "It's all there."

"Oh, I'm sure there's _something_ on that disc," Cassandra says. She still hasn't even looked at it. "And I'm also sure that as soon as I put it in my computer, I'll have Scotland Yard beating down my door."

David goes very pale. "No," he says. He shakes his head. "That's not true."

"Oh, but it is," Cassandra says softly.

David stares at her through huge eyes. He's so young, Eggsy thinks. Too damn young to wind up dead in the next five minutes. If he even has that long. "Whoever told you that is lying," he insists. He taps the jewel case. "That's the real stuff."

Cassandra rises to her feet. Half a second later, Harry stands too, mere inches away on her right side. She looks at him. "Is he lying to me, Harry?"

"Yes," Harry says immediately.

David turns toward him, agonized betrayal on his face. Like he was somehow thinking it was the two of them, the men against the lone woman.

"I think so, too," Cassandra says. "Kill him."

Harry never hesitates. Watching from his double point of view, Eggsy sees that plain as day. Harry's hand plunges beneath his suit jacket and comes up with a pistol from his shoulder holster. In one fluid motion he aims at David's head and pulls the trigger.

Shocked, Eggsy cries out at the screen. He watches David's head explode in a spray of blood and brains. He sees the moment, brief but unmistakable, when Harry's hand jerks to the left, a killer's instinct taking over, wanting him to keep firing and gun Cassandra down. The motion is arrested almost immediately, though, and then he just stands there, his arm taut and shaking, the gun still aimed at David's slumped corpse.

Cassandra doesn't see that misstep. She's too busy staring at Harry's face in shock. And for a moment, she too looks utterly betrayed.

In abject misery, Eggsy stares at the scene playing out in front of him. He knows now why Merlin spoke of this mission in such dark tones.

He wonders if Harry knew then that he had just given himself away, just outed himself with that single gunshot, the practiced move of an experienced killer.

Cassandra masters herself quickly, covering her reaction with an exclamation. "You really did it."

Harry looks over at her. He's already fallen back into his role as Henry DeVere, for when he stares at Cassandra, it's with horror. "I killed him," he says quietly.

"Yes, you did," she says.

They stare at each other, Harry with the shocked look of someone's who's just realized what he's done. He drops the gun like it's suddenly on fire and burning his hand. "I can't…"

"Pick it up," Cassandra orders. "Get the glasses, too. I told you not to order drinks." Cold fury sparks in her eyes. 

"What about…" Harry gestures at the body, but doesn't look at it.

"Leave it," Cassandra snaps. She's angry at Harry, Eggsy knows, but even angrier at herself. She trusted him –- and now he's betrayed her, revealed himself to be far more than he's been pretending to be.

Harry holsters the gun, then carefully rearranges his suit jacket so there is no telltale bulge beneath his arm. He hands the shot glasses to Cassandra; she drops them in her clutch and stands aside, waiting for Harry to move out from the booth.

After a moment's hesitation, Harry does. Just before he leaves the ring of mirrors surrounding the booth, he glances up once, meeting his own eyes in the mirror.

And the eyes of whoever is watching at Kingsman.

But Merlin, if Merlin was in fact watching on that long ago day, doesn't speak. And in that moment, when it seems as if Harry is staring at him from the past, Eggsy sees the answer to his question. It's there in his eyes.

Harry knows he fucked up.

He knows, and still he's going ahead with it. He knows what's going to happen to him, but he's still playing the role he chose for himself. Still doing his duty.

Together he and Cassandra leave the club. A few curious people glance at them as they work their way toward the exit, but no one stops them. No one heard the gunshot over the thumping music.

The silence of the night seems almost too loud after the noise of the club. Harry glances around, revealing that they're in the back car park. Cassandra's black car is parked a short distance away, ready to take them back.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Harry says. He starts to turn away.

"No, you're not," Cassandra says.

The view from Harry's glasses suddenly jerks forward, then slides to the right. For a moment Eggsy can see a far-off building set against the night sky, then Cassandra comes into frame, staring down at him with a carefully blank expression. Then she too is gone, and there is only the pavement right in front of Harry's face.

The tip of a shoe enters the view. "Are you all right? You used the code word."

Eggsy frowns in confusion. He doesn't get it at first. Then he realizes that Cassandra must be wearing a radio, some way of staying in contact with her driver, Carlo, throughout the meeting. As she and Harry walked through the club on their way out, she must have said something, something Eggsy couldn't hear because of the music.

So Carlo, the one who normally accompanied her on meetings like this, was listening the whole time. Ready to step up and do his part by bashing Harry over the head and knocking him unconscious when Cassandra used a pre-arranged phrase to alert him that it was necessary.

And now Harry is unconscious on the ground.

Yet his glasses keep recording, doing their duty even though the man wearing them no longer can. And with sudden horror Eggsy realizes exactly where this is headed.

"You were right," Cassandra says. "It was a mistake to let him come."

The driver doesn't respond. Or if he does, it's too quiet for Eggsy to hear.

"Take him to the townhouse," Cassandra says. "I'll deal with this."

A spike of cold pierces Eggsy's chest. No. No. He can't watch this. He can't.

The view through Harry's glasses rocks and shifts as he's picked up. Cassandra opens the car door. Now the view is nothing but the leather backseat of the car.

The car settles as the two people get inside. The engine is started. "Are you sure you're all right?" Carlo asks.

"Just get us there," Cassandra says.

There is no sensation of movement, nothing to indicate the car has pulled out of the car park and onto the street. But Eggsy knows that's what's happening anyway. They've left the club and are on their way to some townhouse.

He doesn't even know what city this is, he thinks dully.

The view onscreen doesn't change. Harry doesn't wake up.

He can't watch, Eggsy thinks. No way he can sit here and watch them torture Harry. Never mind that it happened twenty years ago, that Harry is fine, is more than fine, is…probably in the exact same situation at this very minute.

_Fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck._

He bites his lip so hard he nearly tastes blood.

Helplessly, he keeps watching.

****

_The world is slow to return, bits and pieces of memory circling around his aching head before swimming into place. By the time he realizes he's tied to a chair, he's been conscious for several minutes._

_He tries to lift his head, and promptly regrets it. The room spins about him, and he hears himself utter a low groan._

_"There you are." Cassandra sounds horribly cheerful. "I was starting to get cross. Bad enough I have to wait for you every night."_

_He has a choice now. He can throw aside the charade and meet her as evenly matched adversaries. Or he can continue in his role, and attempt to turn the situation to his advantage._

_He groans again. "What…"_

_She slaps him. Hard. "No."_

_It hurts, jagged pain all through his skull, and Harry lets himself make a pained outcry. He squints up at Cassandra. "I don't understand."_

_She stares down at him. "Enough," she says. "There's been enough lying for one night, don't you think?"_

_He looks around, terrified, confused. Sees the wires, the electrical leads, his open shirt. His fear becomes partly genuine then, but behind it, as ever, is the hatred. She's going to hurt him, and he's going to let her. Because he has to. Because this was his choice, and he knew going into this mission that sooner or later it was all going to end in some dark room like this._

_He always knew._

_"Cassandra. Milady. What's happening?" He pulls at the straps holding him to the chair and looks around wildly, seeking someone to help him. "Why are you doing this?"_

_"Who are you?" she asks._

_He stares up at her, the innocent man who only ever wanted to please her. "You know who I am."_

_"Who. Are. You?" She drifts over to the little box with its red lever._

_"Don't," he pleads. He hates the sound of his own voice like that, hates that this is what she's reduced him to._

_"Then tell me who are you."_

_"Henry," he says. "Henry DeVere. Harry. You know me."_

_"Wrong answer." She pulls the lever._

_It hurts as badly as he thought it would. He makes no effort to remain silent. Henry DeVere is, after all, a fucking coward._

_But this is the role he's chosen for himself, and so he plays it to the best of his ability. It goes on for some time, probably no more than half an hour, and yet it feels like an eternity. He cries and begs, and even screams when he's supposed to. It's completely embarrassing. Throughout it all, Cassandra remains dry-eyed and stony-faced. She asks the same question repeatedly, and then for a little variety, she leans down and shouts in his face._

_"Stop lying to me! You fired that gun way too easily for me to ever believe that all you ever did was_ fox hunting!"

_And there is his opening, the moment he's been waiting for._

_"I practiced!" he cries. "I practiced!"_

_Her eyes narrow. "What."_

_He stares at her, pleading with her to believe him. It is, unfortunately, more than just a sham. He can hold out for far longer than this if he must, but he would prefer not to, of course. "I practiced. Milady. Please. You asked if I could do it. So I practiced. I practiced. For you."_

_And so he did. Hours spent in front of the mirror pretending to gun down imaginary assailants, most of them wearing Cassandra's face. Murmuring to himself words of encouragement, faking his way through conversations with a ghostly Cassandra. Fully aware that the bugs she had planted in his house would pick it all up. Knowing that sooner or later, she would have a reason to listen._

_Always performing, always in the spotlight._

_She glares down at him. For a moment he thinks she's going to shock him again, but then she moves away. At the door she hesitates, but she leaves without saying a word._

_The silence afterward is deafening._

_Very quietly, in his ear Merlin says, "You did very well, Galahad. I'm proud of you."_

****

Eggsy's been keeping it together okay, but when he hears Merlin's comment, he just completely loses his shit. The tears he's been fighting back stream down his face. "Fuck you!" he yells at the laptop. _"Fuck you!"_

How could Merlin do it? How could he just sit there and watch her torture Harry and do absolutely nothing? How could he let Harry humiliate himself like that and not do something about it?

He can't take this. Onscreen, the view is unchanging, an image of the wall where it meets the ceiling. Harry's obviously sitting with his head tipped back. All the better to avoid having to look at the wires running to his chest.

And still the glasses keep recording, sending the horrible images back to Kingsman and to Eggsy, sitting here twenty years later with his heart shattered into pieces and his body on fire with rage.

Because of course he knows why. Harry hadn't finished his mission yet. He'd got close to Cassandra, but he still hadn't known her source in MI:6, where she was getting all those classified secrets she sold. Even if Merlin had offered to extract him then, Harry would have refused.

"Fuck you, too," Eggsy sniffles. Fuck Harry and his stubborn, beautiful courage. Fuck Harry and his determination to do the right thing and see it through.

He wipes at his eyes and glares at the screen. God, he can't keep watching this. How long is she going to make Harry just sit there, suffering and waiting for her to decide his fate?

And where is Cassandra right at this very moment? Where is Harry?

Eggsy moans, a watery little sound that hurts his throat.

He can't do it. He reaches for the mouse, intending to skip ahead. Before he can even move the cursor, though, the video jumps ahead on its own. An edit made by Kingsman, maybe even by Merlin himself.

A timer appears briefly in the bottom right of the screen. Eggsy stares at it in horrified disbelief for a second before accepting that on the video feed, over three hours have passed.

Harry isn't staring at the wall anymore. The view through his glasses bobs slightly up and down as his head droops. His breathing is unsteady, and a little too loud. He's probably fighting hard to stay conscious and alert, but it's clearly a losing battle. 

It's enough to bring the tears back to burn Eggsy's eyes.

But there's a reason the video skips ahead to this point. Somewhere out of sight, a door opens. And the view onscreen jerks to one side as Harry flinches.

Cassandra's heels click on the floor. She walks up and now her legs are in view.

"I'm sorry," she says.

Shocked, Eggsy just stares. He's willing to bet that until that point, she hadn't said those words and actually meant them in years. 

Onscreen, the view shifts as Harry finally picks his head up. Cassandra gazes down at him. "You should have told me," she says. There's a strange look on her face, something Eggsy can't figure out at first.

And then it hits him. She looks a bit like Dean, back when Eggsy was little and Dean still bothered to try doing the fatherly caring thing. It's compassion, but it sits oddly on her face, an emotion too foreign to her for her to ever be comfortable feeling it.

"Milady," Harry says. His voice is hoarse and pleading.

Cassandra's face crumples. "You should have told me!" She hurries around the chair Harry is strapped to, moving rapidly out of view.

It worked, Eggsy thinks in disbelief. It really worked.

Cassandra has to help Harry out of the chair -- although that is definitely part of the ruse, Eggsy is confident of that. She wraps both arms around him when he stumbles, and helps prop him up. "Forgive me," she whispers.

"Always," Harry says.

There's a bit more to the video, but Eggsy has seen enough. He slams the laptop closed and swivels his chair around so he doesn't even have to look at it anymore. He starts to get up, but his arse barely clears the chair when his legs give out, and he just sort of falls back into it.

"Oh fuck," he whispers. "Oh Harry." He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to hold back the tears.

"Where are you?"

****

_The very next day, Cassandra tells him to move in with her. Trapped more thoroughly by her trust than her suspicion, Harry smiles and says he would love to._

_Seeing her every day was difficult. Living with her is a refined torture a thousand times worse than being electrocuted. The pressure is unrelenting. At least in Henry DeVere's house he could read a book or watch TV and allow himself to relax a little. Everything he did could be heard, of course, but there were no cameras, no eyes watching._

_Cassandra is always watching._

_Halfway through September, she tells him she has to leave. She's going to meet a business associate in Prague. Harry asks if he can go with her. She says no. He persists, saying that he thought they were partners now, and in a fit of pique, she stabs him with her nail file._

_The wound is slight, although it bleeds a lot. Standing there clutching his hand, trying not to get blood all over the carpet, Harry promises himself that when the time comes, Cassandra is going to die very badly._

_"It's a shame you can't make it to the meeting," she says sweetly. "What with your injury and all. But look at it this way. Now you have something to remember me by, darling. Wouldn't want you to forget me while I'm gone."_

_He lets her go, of course. He even smiles about it. He has no choice._

_Inside, though, where he hides everything, he is starting to grow desperate. It's why he pushed the issue hard enough to make her angry. He's been on this mission for five months now, and he is still unable to complete it. He's learned a lot of things in that time, it's true. He's learned Cassandra's darkest secret, the one she never told him but he found out anyway. He's learned how to control his instinctive flinch when she raises her hand at him, what she likes in bed and how to please her. He's even learned who some of her buyers are, the ones from Russia and China and Iraq, the ones who pay handsomely for the weapons and classified information she has to sell. But the one thing he came here to learn -- her source at MI:6 -- remains a frustrating mystery._

_The thought of giving up, though, is unacceptable. He will simply have to be patient, he tells himself, and try harder._

_When she gets back, she is kind again, and genuinely happy to see him. She takes him to bed and it's good, like it was in the beginning. And at last she tells him what he's been waiting to hear: he can come with her next time, that they are partners._

_"We are," he says. He strokes her cheek with the hand that isn't bandaged. "In every sense of the word, someday, perhaps."_

_Her eyes grow very big at that. And that's how he discovers for himself what his exit strategy is. Kingsman can't get him out. Only he can do that._

_And now he knows how._

_He just hopes it can happen soon. He's not sure how much more of this he can take._

_He's had enough._

****

On a short video at the end of September, Cassandra finally gives Harry what he's been waiting for. She wants him to come with her to meet her source at MI:6. "We're partners now," she says with a smile. "In every sense of the word."

The next video is dated over a week later, just five days before the meeting that will change everything. It begins with Harry asking the driver named Carlo to take him into town. The feed cuts out then and skips ahead; clearly nothing of interest happened on the drive itself, nothing to give Harry a reason to keep recording it. 

When the video resumes, Harry is at a jeweler's, standing at a counter where engagement diamonds shine on pretty gold and silver bands.

"Galahad?" Merlin sounds concerned. He's clearly taking full advantage of this rare chance for him to speak to his agent. "I hope you're not planning to actually _propose_ to this woman."

"Don't be absurd," Harry snaps. Then in a somewhat softer tone he says, "But Carlo will tell her where I've been, and now she'll think I intend to. Which is what matters."

A clerk comes over and there is some pretend business, Harry asking to see a couple of the rings, the clerk offering advice and information. At last the man walks away, and Harry is free to talk again, turned somewhat away from the counter so no one can see or hear.

"This is what she wants, after all."

"Tell me about it," Merlin says. "If she drops another hint, it'll be an anvil." He pauses briefly, then says, "We're prepping an extraction team for you. I do need a few more details, though."

"No need," Harry says. "After the meeting with her source, I'll tell her I need to pick something up in town. She'd be suspicious if I left her so soon for any other reason."

"But she'll think you're going to pick up the ring," Merlin says, approval in his voice. "A rather ingenious exit strategy. Well done, Galahad. Very well done."

Harry breathes in deep, a sound perfectly clear over the glasses. His reflection is visible in the glass of the display case. He's far too thin and pale; there's a faint shadow on one cheek, the lingering remnants of a bruise. Yet he looks perfectly put together, tie crisply knotted, every hair in place. Keeping up appearances, as always, the outside providing no reflection of what's happening underneath the surface.

It's enough to break Eggsy's heart.

"You've done extremely well in a very difficult situation," Merlin says. "Only a few more days and then you'll be done." His tone changes, becomes less Merlin-the-handler, and more the man and friend. "You can do it, Harry."

One of Harry's hands comes into frame, gripping the edge of the display case tightly. "Yes," he murmurs. His breathing is uneven, audible over the feed.

Watching it now, Eggsy wants to reach through the screen and take his hand. Wants to hold him tight. He can't imagine how Harry must have felt just then, knowing that the end was finally in sight; months of abuse, of pretending to be someone he was not, finally coming to an end.

"I should go," Harry says.

"Yes," Merlin replies. "Be careful."

"Be careful," Eggsy echoes, and gives in. He touches the screen and strokes his fingertips down the back of Harry's hand, across the scar that is still so shiny and new, nothing like the old mark Eggsy is familiar with.

Harry lets go of the display case. His hand comes into frame and then the feed goes dark. The video ends – but not before Eggsy can see that his hand was shaking.

****

There are other videos to watch, including that final, fateful meeting with the MI:6 informant, but Eggsy can't do it. He should, he knows he should. He owes it to Harry to watch him learn the identity of the person who was the sole reason he endured this hell in the first place. But he can't. He can't do it. He doesn't give a fuck about MI:6 and their mole. He can't watch one more second of this.

So of course he starts playing the next video.

It's only just started when the library doors open and Merlin walks in. He stops short in surprise. "Eggsy. You're still here."

"Where the fuck else would I be?" Eggsy retorts as he pauses the video.

"Home," Merlin says. "That's where you should be."

Eggsy shakes his head. Fuck that. Harry's not the only one who can see something through to the bitter end. "You're the one who told me to see if I could find anything on these files."

"And have you?" Merlin asks.

"No," Eggsy is forced to admit.

Merlin's expression softens a little. "Go home, Eggsy. Get some rest."

"I can't," Eggsy says. "I need to…" He gestures at the laptop, at the video that's still paused. It's kind of a blurry shot, but he can still make out Cassandra's figure in front of a tall window. They must have been in the front room of her grand house in Surrey, the one Roxy was staking out. Probably she and Harry discussed the meeting with her MI:6 informant, and that's why Harry recorded this.

"You need to get some sleep," Merlin says kindly.

It's tempting, he can't lie. He's been awake for God only knows how many hours now. His eyes are burning, his head is throbbing, and he can't remember the last time he ate something. But Harry is out there somewhere, probably hurt, definitely in danger. There's just no way Eggsy can abandon him right now.

"I can't," he says again. "Not until we find him."

"We're still looking," Merlin says. "We haven't given up. But I have to think about you, too." He pauses just long enough to let that sink in, then goes in for the kill. "You're no good to anyone right now in your condition. Even if we learned Harry's location right this second, I wouldn't allow you to come. You'd be more of a hazard than a help."

The words hurt. A lot. He wants to snap back that he'll go wherever he fucking well pleases, including on the rescue mission to find Harry, and Merlin can go fuck himself if he doesn't like it. Except he knows Merlin means well. Merlin _does_ care about him.

And he needs to maybe grow up, stop being so fucking defensive all the time.

Eggsy blows out a long breath. "Yeah, all right," he sighs.

Merlin nods. "I'll call you in a few hours."

"Call me right away if you hear anything," Eggsy pleads.

"I will," Merlin promises. He probably even means it.

So Eggsy follows him from the library. He trudges through the mansion, past the hangar and the little alcove where Merlin sits when he's playing handler. He thinks about Merlin sitting there twenty years ago, watching day after day as Harry got in deeper with Cassandra. He thinks about Merlin a few hours ago saying, _It was the mission that made his reputation as the best agent Kingsman had, but if I had the chance to do it all over again, I'd never let him go._

The bullet train is already here, thankfully. He climbs in and sinks back in the chair. The train takes off, and Eggsy has to fight to keep his eyes open. He doesn't want to fall asleep, then wake up to find the train has traveled all the way back here and he's got a cramp in his neck from sleeping all funny.

It's really fucking hard, though.

Fortunately his imagination comes to his rescue. Sort of. He finds himself thinking about the things he's been watching all evening. All those videos of Harry undercover with Cassandra, isolated from Kingsman and left to find his own way out.

And what about now? Roxy was right, of course, when she said that Harry could take care of himself. But that doesn't really mean shit. Not when faced against people like Richmond Valentine or Cassandra Prescott. Sometimes there isn't a chance to take care of yourself. Sometimes you need help.

The train speeds along the track, back to London and Savile Row. Eggsy thumps his head against the cushion at his back and tries to force his tired mind into working properly. There's got to be something in one of those videos that can help Kingsman find Harry. There has to be.

Maybe there is. Maybe it's in one of the videos he didn't watch, a file he skipped because there are just so fucking many of them, and he will literally make himself sick if he has to watch them all. Maybe there's just one hint buried in all that footage, just one flash of knowledge, and he missed it because he was blinking or because he chose that moment to look away in disgust.

He frowns as his tired, overstressed brain tries to make some kind of mental connection – and fails. He can almost feel the cells themselves crying out in frustration.

_Where are you, Harry?_

****

 _Enough of this_ , Harry thinks, and opens his eyes.

He's done playing dead. He's not as young as he used to be; his tolerance for lying on uncomfortably hard floors is nowhere near what it once was. He's incredibly thirsty, and his head is killing him. But mostly he's just completely, totally, fucking _done._

Now that he's finally looking at it, he sees that the room he's in has changed quite a lot in twenty years. The chair where he was once strapped down and electrocuted is gone. There are a lot more cobwebs and spiderwebs, and it's colder than it once was. He guesses this house hasn't seen much use in the intervening years. He's somewhat surprised that she still owns it after so much time in prison. Apparently Carlo is far more loyal that he ever knew, faithfully taking care of a house he never stood a chance to own.

She'll be back soon. He wonders what it'll be this time. A knife, maybe. Or his own lighter. She'll do anything to make him admit he was the one who betrayed her, the one responsible for the police breaking down her door and arresting her for treason.

It doesn't actually matter, though, what she intends to do to him. He plans to be long gone by the time she arrives.

But first he's got to get out of here, a task made slightly more difficult by the fact that he's bound hand and foot. His shoelaces are knotted about his ankles, but the fabric tight about his wrists is still his own black bow tie.

She did pretty well, he has to admit, considering how she hadn't expected to run into him at the party and then abduct him halfway across the globe.

He's lying mostly on his left side, exactly where Carlo dumped him when they first walked in. It doesn't take much effort now to twist his right wrist against the tie and reach for his left sleeve cuff. His shoulders, already strained and aching, protest the movement, but Harry persists, calmly feeling for the onyx cufflink nestled there.

The tuxedo is Kingsman-issue, of course. As elegant and bulletproof as all his other suits. And like all those other suits, there are multiple items hidden within the accessories.

The cufflink comes loose at last. Harry feels carefully along the edge until he finds the spot he's searching for. He presses inward, and he hears a faint _snick_ as the blade hidden within pops out.

Without being able to see what he's doing, it takes some trial and error to locate the strip of cloth tied about his wrists, and in spite of his best efforts, he cuts himself once. He curses under his breath, then starts sawing at the black bow tie. It parts easily enough beneath the blade, but he has to slow down when he reaches the garrote nestled in the center of the fabric. Both his shoulders and wrists are screaming at him by then, and he curses again, using some of Eggsy's more colorful phrasing, before at last the wire snaps in two.

With a relieved groan, Harry rolls onto his back. He wastes a few minutes massaging his hands and wrists, trying to get the feeling back. The cut on his wrist is still bleeding, but it's nothing serious, and he doesn't bother with it. Before this day is done, he figures, there will be plenty more where that came from.

He sits up slowly, breathing shallowly and trying not to groan out loud with the pain in his head. He lets himself take another few precious moments to gather his strength, then he leans forward and slices through the shoelaces knotted about his ankles. His shoes are gone, but at least they left him his socks; given how cold it is in here, it's a small mercy he's quite thankful for.

Carefully he stands up. The room does a slow tilt around him, then settles into normal dimensions. Harry remains still until his headache subsides a little bit, holding the cufflink loosely in his hand. The tiny blade peeks out between his fingers. As far as weapons go it's entirely substandard, but it will suffice until he can find something better.

It's time to get out of here.

****

Still deep in thought, Eggsy takes the lift through the shop on Savile Row. The lights are all turned off except a lamp burning on the counter where Andrew stands all day, but Eggsy scarely notices. He's not paying any attention to his surroundings.

There's something on those videos… He _did_ miss something. He's certain of it now.

A Kingsman cab idles at the kerb, a ride Merlin no doubt arranged. Eggsy gets in and gives the driver his address, then stares glumly out the window. At this late hour the city is reduced to smears of light and blurry buildings reflected in the glass.

And then it hits him. A flash, a building. He saw it. He fucking _saw_ it!

The night Harry killed the seller of false information, the guy named David. As Harry was falling, already unconscious from when the driver named Carlo struck him from behind. That momentary glimpse of a building in the night. A tall, domed building.

Eggsy lunges at the window as though he can summon the image there in the glass.

"Hurry!" he snaps at the driver. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh _shit._

It was St. Paul's. The building he saw that night. Fucking St. Paul's Cathedral.

The club they were at, the townhouse where Cassandra tortured Harry – it's all in London.

 _Harry_ is in London.

****

Opportunity presents itself much sooner than anticipated. While Harry is still just standing there, collecting his strength and debating his options, the door opens and Cassandra walks in.

They stare at each other in shock for a moment, neither of them having expected this. In that first instant Harry sees the gun in her hand and the absence of any other weapons, and realizes that she has, yet again, confounded his expectations of her.

She wasn't coming here to make him talk. She was coming here to kill him.

He bolts at her just as she raises the gun. He has the longer reach, and the advantage of speed. Just as he sinks the cufflink blade into her throat, she fires.

At this close range, nothing can stop the bullet. The impact sends him staggering backward. He falls, half his chest already numb, the other half blazing with pain.

But the blade stays embedded in Cassandra's throat. Bright red blood streams from the wound. It's a perfect hit; he got her right in the jugular. Already she is dying, with only minutes to live.

She doesn't know that, though. Her face contorts in a snarl of rage. "You," she spits. And as she sinks to her knees, one hand pressed to her throat, she tries to aim at him for another shot.

Off-balance, Harry lunges at her. His hands close over hers and he grabs the gun hard enough to break her fingers.

She stares at him, her eyes dulling but still bright with hatred.

Harry jams the gun beneath her chin and pulls the trigger.

The stillness afterward seems unnatural. Blood drips down his face and neck, Cassandra's final, ugly present to him. In the close confines of the room, the gunshots were horrifically loud. Deafened and dazed, Harry sways on his knees. He stares dispassionately at what's left of Cassandra Prescott.

He has no final words for her, no bad pun, no epitaph. He has nothing for her at all.

He reaches up and wipes the worst of the foul mess off his face, then staggers to his feet, still holding the gun. If anyone was close by, they must surely have heard the shots. But the hallway beyond the open door remains empty.

Twenty years ago he was only here the one time, and he wasn't in much shape to pay attention to the layout of the house. It's not large enough to get lost in, though. He finds the stairs leading to the ground floor and takes them slowly, the gun leading the way. With his hearing compromised, he's at a distinct disadvantage and he has to be careful.

The steps seem very steep. He's vaguely aware that he should be dying. He was just shot in the chest at point-blank range, after all. But he doesn't feel like he's dying. He's hurt and bleeding, but he feels very much alive.

When Carlo steps out from behind the corner, Harry isn't one bit surprised. It's like he was simply waiting for this to happen.

They fire at the same time. The Kingsman tuxedo neatly absorbs the bullet, but Carlo drops dead, a hole in his forehead. There is hardly any blood at all.

Harry keeps going. He doesn't even look down at the body as he passes by, although he does fire a second shot. Just to be sure.

Through the living room he can see the front door.

He's getting the fuck out.

****

"Fucking hurry!" Eggsy yells at the driver. His mind is racing now, his entire body aflame with desperation. No way Cassandra still owns that townhouse; Kingsman would know if she did, just as they know she still has the big house in Surrey.

But what if she doesn't own it anymore? What if she gave it to Carlo? What if it always belonged to Carlo, as a way of keeping some of her assets out of her name in order to protect them? What if she sold it to him when it became clear that she was going to spend the rest of her life in prison?

There's only one way to find out.

The cab finally pulls up to the house in Stanhope Mews, and Eggsy leaps out without even a thank-you for the driver. He lets himself in, throws the door shut behind him, and runs up the stairs so fast the whole house seems to shake.

Harry's laptop is in the office, right where it usually is. Eggsy grabs at it and flings it open. They've been gone for days but thanks to Harry's planning ahead, it's plugged in, the battery all charged, ready to be used immediately upon their return from New York.

He's signed into the Kingsman network within seconds. Forget Google and the Internet. Any information he could ever want is right here.

Including the one thing he needs. The known addresses of one Carlo Rotelli.

The words seem to burn on the screen. Eggsy stares at them in cold horror. His heart wrenches in his chest. Because one street name is very familiar to him. He knows it. He knows it very well.

It's only five blocks away.

"Fuck!" he yells. He slams the laptop closed and almost hits himself in the forehead as he reaches up to activate his Kingsman glasses. "Merlin! Caradoc! Someone!"

It doesn't matter who responds, just so long as someone does. But it feels right that it's Merlin's voice he hears in his ear. "Gawain? What's going on?"

Already leaping down the stairs, Eggsy shouts, "I know where Harry is!"

****

It's very dark out. The air has that heavy, damp unpleasant feeling like it's ready to start oozing a chill mist at any moment.

Still holding the gun, his other hand pressed to his chest, Harry staggers down the street.

He never realized, all those years ago, how close Cassandra's townhouse was to his own. He's enormously grateful for that fact now. He's honestly not sure if he could have lived in her shadow all this time, had he known.

It doesn't matter now, though. She's dead.

Soon he will be, too. Every part of him hurts. Blood is drying on his skin and soaked into his clothes. With every step, it gets harder to keep walking.

There is no one out at this hour. The houses on either side of the street are dark and silent, their occupants gone to bed for the evening. This is a respectable area of town, where no one plays loud music late at night and the only person staggering drunkenly along the pavement is himself.

And one other.

He can hear footsteps approaching. Whoever they are, the other person is running, coming toward him in a hurry.

Harry steps off the pavement and onto the beautifully manicured garden of the nearest house, avoiding the flood of light from the streetlights. He raises the gun, then hesitates. A shot on this quiet street, shattering the stillness, will do more than wake the neighbours. It will bring the police.

And it's the nature of Kingsman that their achievements remain secret.

He can't shoot the person running at him, but neither will he let them take him. He won't go back. He won't be forced into that trap again.

He turns to run.

"No!"

The cry comes from behind him now. The running footsteps stop, then approach again, more slowly this time. "Harry."

He freezes, still poised to run.

Dangerous or not, he can't take any chances. He presses the gun to the bloody wound in his chest so the other person can't see that he has it, and he waits.

The man who walks up to him is young and handsome. His rumpled suit is black, not a traditional tuxedo, a bit of a fashion risk for someone who was at a star-studded party in New York just yesterday. His complexion is deathly white, his eyes huge in his face. "Harry, oh my God."

"Eggsy," Harry says, and then he falls.

****

There's so much blood. Oh fuck, there's so much blood, oh fuck what the hell happened? It's all Eggsy can think as he gets his first good look at Harry.

Then Harry says his name and his legs fold beneath him, and he drops to the ground.

Eggsy cries out wordlessly and bolts for him. He's too stupid-slow to do anything useful, though, and by the time he bends down and reaches out, Harry is already trying to get up on his own.

The grass is cold and slippery with dew. Eggsy drops to his knees without a thought for the trousers he's about to ruin, grabs for Harry and holds on tight.

"I got him," he says to Merlin. "I found him."

"I see that," Merlin says. His voice is tight with repressed emotion. "Kay is en route. Get out of there if you can. If not, keep quiet and try not to alert the entire neighborhood."

"Roger that," Eggsy says. His shout a minute ago doesn't seem to have woken anyone up, thankfully; no lights have appeared in any windows.

"Is it Merlin?" Harry asks. Even in the dim light, he is terribly pale.

"Yeah," Eggsy says. He sits back and looks Harry up and down, giving Merlin a good look through his glasses. The blood, God, there's so much of it. "Are you okay? What…?"

"Cassandra Prescott is dead," Harry says. There's blood in his hair where it hangs over his brow, turning it black in the glow from the streetlight. He kneels in the grass, and in his right hand he still clutches the gun he must have taken from her.

"What did she do to you?" Eggsy demands in a furious whisper. He's never been so glad to hear that someone is dead in all his life. He almost wishes she wasn't, though, so he could be the one to pull the trigger.

"He's been shot," Merlin says from his more objective vantage point, seeing all the things Eggsy is too shocked and scared to see.

"Oh fuck," Eggsy breathes.

"Get pressure on the wound," Merlin urges. _"Now."_

"Yeah," he says. He reaches for Harry's tuxedo jacket. The black fabric is wet with blood. Eggsy moves it aside gingerly, afraid of what he'll see -- and then goes very still.

"Oh, shit," Merlin says in amazement.

"Oh, Harry," Eggsy says.

After a moment, Harry looks down. He stares at the mess on his chest. "Ah," he says. "There they are."

There they are indeed. Neatly folded in the pocket of Harry's white dress shirt are his Kingsman glasses. Like the tuxedo they're nestled inside, they are bulletproof. But even they were no match for a shot made at close range, as this one must have been.

The glasses are shattered and twisted beyond repair. But between them and the suit, the bullet that should have ended up in Harry's heart never made it there. He's cut pretty badly from all the broken glass, but the bullet itself is a flattened circle of metal that only barely broke the skin. All the blood makes everything look bad, but a second look reveals that most of the damage is superficial.

"I can't believe you," he says, and shit, he's maybe almost crying, but he can't help it. He's been so fucking worried, hell, he's been _terrified_ , and now it's all over.

The relief is dizzying. Harry isn't dead, or dying, or lost anymore. Most of the blood on him isn't even his own. He's here, he's right here, alive and safe, and with a laugh that's only part-sob, Eggsy kisses him.

Harry tastes like blood and his breath is as foul as Eggsy's own, but it's still the sweetest kiss they've ever shared. All the pain and uncertainty of the last week – and the terror of this, the longest day in the history of time -- falls away into insignificance. All that matters is this moment, Harry holding onto him, his arms around Harry.

"I thought you was dead," he gasps in between kisses. "I thought she was gonna kill you."

"I thought she might take you, too," Harry says, tipping their foreheads together. "I couldn't… I don't know what I should do if I ever lost you, Eggsy."

He holds on tight, thinking he's never letting go again. Not ever. "Lucky for you, you won't ever have to find out."

It's more than he can bear, to think that Harry deliberately went after Cassandra and gave himself up to her control again.

 _To protect me_ , Eggsy realizes. _Fuck._

"Gawain." Merlin will not be denied.

Eggsy looks up and sees the headlights of approaching cars. They could be anyone, could be people who live in this neighbourhood. But he knows they're not. They're from Kingsman. One to take him and Harry away, one to do the grisly job of cleaning up the townhouse where Cassandra Prescott lies dead.

"Look," he says. "Our ride is here."

Harry looks up. He still hasn't let go of the gun. "Yes," he says quietly. He sways, and Eggsy realises he's about to pass out. 

"It's okay," he says. "I got you."

"It's over," Harry sighs. "It's over."

****

_He walks past the jewelry store without going in, without even glancing at the items on display in the window. He insisted on driving himself today, so there is no Carlo to watch him. Two shops down, there is a narrow alley leading to the street behind this one, and the shops and restaurants that await a person of leisure._

_The black car sits in front of the curry takeaway, the engine nearly silent at an idle. Just the sight of it is enough to start Harry's heart racing, and he quickens his step._

_He knows there's no one behind him, yet all the same, it feels like someone is there. Like someone is watching him._

_The rear door opens and he gets in. His fellow passenger, the one who opened the door for him, slides over, giving him room. It's Merlin._

_"Well done, Galahad," Merlin says._

_"Go," Harry says. He doesn't recognise the driver. It's a scary realisation. He's been gone so long Kingsman has acquired at least one new driver. "Go now."_

_The car pulls out onto the street, gaining speed. Harry looks out the window, needing to make sure no one is following them._

_"There's no one there," Merlin says quietly._

_He knows that is true. If it weren't, Merlin and his driver would have left, deeming it unwise to pick him up. But they stayed, and that means they are in the clear._

_He's truly free._

_The knowledge sweeps over him. He sinks back against the seat. The air inside the car feels hot and thick; it's suddenly hard to breathe._

_"We'll return to HQ," Merlin says. "Arthur wants to debrief with you first, then I expect you'll be sent home."_

_Home. The word sounds so strange. He hasn't thought of his house in Stanhope Mews in months. He hasn't dared._

_But he gets to go home now. It's over. This morning he and Cassandra met with her MI6 informant, finally giving him the one thing he needed. The information has been passed on, MI6 has been contacted, and his part in this charade is over. After six agonising months, he has at last fulfilled his mission._

_He can finally go home._

_"Galahad. Harry?" Merlin sounds worried, the way he did so many times before, his voice coming from so far away over his glasses._

_It's not hard to figure out why. He's breathing so hard and fast his chest hurts. If he keeps this up he's going to hyperventilate._

_Merlin's hand settles on his back. "You're going to be okay," he says quietly. "You did it. You made it. You're going to be okay."_

_Harry shuts his eyes and forces himself to inhale deeply. The breath shudders in his throat, then down through his entire body._

_"You're going to be okay," Merlin says._

_"It's over."_

****

The skies are starting to cloud up when the cab drops Harry off at his house. The sun clings stubbornly overhead, though, refusing to give up completely.

He thanks the driver and gets out of the car. He's moving a little slowly today and probably will for a few more days, but really there's nothing wrong with him that time and rest won't fix. His concussion is a mild one, but he's still been warned away from strenuous activity and spending too much time on the computer for the next few days. The cuts on his chest are stitched up and bandaged, and there's another bandage peeking out from his left sleeve.

He isn't too worried. He's been here before. He'll be fine.

The cab drives off, but Harry lingers outside for a bit. He finds that he needs a little time before he opens the front door and goes inside.

He remembers coming home like this twenty years ago. It had been dark then, nearly midnight. He had let himself in and just stood in the foyer for the longest time. Someone from Kingsman had been there earlier that day in anticipation of his return, and he had smelled the lemony scent of cleaning polish. The light had been left on over the stove, and a lamp in the living room had been turned on.

After so many months away, the house had felt strange, almost cold and empty. Not at all warm and welcoming like he had thought it might be.

Despite his exhaustion, he hadn't slept at all that first night. The very next day he had got dressed and made the trip to the prison where Cassandra awaited sentencing. He hadn't told anyone at Kingsman that he was going. He had just done it, taking the final step to truly end his mission.

Except it hadn't really ended that day. He knows that now.

Today the house is quiet, with no barking dog to herald his arrival; JB has been with Michelle and Daisy Unwin since he and Eggsy left for New York. And Eggsy is home, but hopefully deep asleep. This morning was the first time that Harry had managed to get him to agree to leave his side. He hopes Eggsy is getting some rest. He slept most of the night away, aided by some wonderfully strong painkillers, but he was told that Eggsy stayed up all night, watching over him.

It's cheating to come home now instead of waiting for his official release, for Eggsy to return later this afternoon so they could go home together like they originally planned. But Harry is done with sitting around waiting meekly for someone else to decide what happens to him. After that first mission it took him months to relearn who Harry Hart was, how to speak his mind, how to relax and not feel hostile eyes and ears on him all the time, watching his every move, listening to his every word. He'll be damned if he goes through that again.

He knows who he is now, and what he wants out of life. More importantly, _who_ he wants.

He lets himself in the house, shuts and locks the door behind him, and then stops.

"Hey," Eggsy says.

Harry smiles a little. He can't help it. He ought to be cross with Eggsy for not following directions, for not going to bed and getting some sleep. But he can hardly fault Eggsy for breaking the rules when he's doing the exact same thing.

Nor can he deny the little thrill in his chest he gets at seeing Eggsy. It's been this way almost since that very first day, watching Eggsy cautiously approach the shop on Savile Row while he sat so still within, pretending his heart wasn't racing with excitement and his cock stirring with interest. It's how he knew Eggsy was the one for him, that he could still feel this way every day, every time he saw Eggsy after a separation, no matter how short.

"Kinda figured you might be up to somethin'," Eggsy says with a sly grin. He's dressed in a pair of gray trackies and a black T-shirt. There are still lingering shadows beneath his eyes, and he missed a spot shaving this morning in his haste, but overall he looks much better than he did yesterday. It's a statement Harry hopes applies to himself, as well.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," Harry says.

"Uh-huh," Eggsy says. Then he grins and steps aside. "Well, you might as well come in."

The house is wonderfully warm, with none of the cool emptiness that comes from rooms too long uninhabited. His favorite cardigan is draped across the couch, and the book he was reading before they left for New York is set out on the coffee table. Fresh coffee is brewing, and everything looks clean and inviting. "Eggsy."

Eggsy kind of shrugs, looking almost uncomfortable. "Just thought you might like it."

"It was very thoughtful," Harry says. He's deeply touched by Eggsy's generosity, especially since it was done at the expense of his own need for rest.

He would like to stay up, to have a cup of coffee and sit with Eggsy and let himself relax. But just getting from HQ to the house has worn him out, and as much as he hates to admit it, all he's really up for right now is a nap.

"You should get some sleep," Eggsy says.

"As should you," Harry replies.

So they end up lying side by side in bed, the room slowly getting darker as the sun loses the battle to the clouds. Eggsy is a warm and cozy presence beside him, already half-asleep and breathing slowly.

Harry watches him for a little while. Despite the horror of the last few days, he feels quite safe and content. What happened with Cassandra will no doubt haunt his dreams for some time to come – but not today. Not while Eggsy is lying here beside him. He is certain of that.

He closes his eyes and sleeps. 

****

"How did you find me?"

Dinner is over, the dishes put away. Harry is in his jumper, sitting on the couch. In the chair across from him, Eggsy sits with his feet tucked beneath him and both hands wrapped around a can of his favorite fizzy drink.

There was neither the time nor enough privacy to talk of anything while he was still in Medical. But now they have both, and Harry is ready for some answers.

"It was the address," Eggsy says. "Carlo owned the townhouse. Apparently she sold him a lot of her real estate so it wouldn't be in her name when she was in prison. So they couldn't come after her, in case anything went wrong."

Harry nods. That makes sense. But that still doesn't answer his question – the real question. Even with the concussion, his memory of that night is unfortunately quite clear. He knows that Eggsy arrived on the scene first. On foot.

"Yes, but how did _you_ find me?" He has a suspicion, but he needs it confirmed.

Eggsy looks down, and that's all the answer Harry needs, even before he says, "I watched the old videos. Your mission with her." He looks up then, those beautiful green eyes full of anxiety, and blurts, "I didn't want to! And I didn't watch 'em all. But that's how I found you. That's how I knew she'd taken you to London."

So Eggsy saw. Eggsy knows. Whether he watched one video or ten, he saw enough.

He's not sure how that makes him feel. There's an obscure sense of relief, a vague gratitude. There are things about himself that he would never have been able to put into words. Now he doesn't have to. Eggsy already knows.

But it's also humiliating. His privacy has been violated without his consent. All those awful things have been dragged out into the light and seen by the one person he would have forever kept them secret from, had he been given any choice in the matter.

"I see," he says slowly. He keeps his gaze on the coffee table between them. He doesn't trust himself to look at Eggsy just then.

"I'm sorry," Eggsy says. He sounds miserable. "I never would've watched 'em without askin' you first if it wasn't important."

"I know," Harry says. He breathes in slowly, feeling the pull of the stitches on his chest where his glasses shattered and cut him. He's still not happy Eggsy saw those videos, but what's done is done. There's no taking it back now. At least he knows Eggsy will never tell anyone what he saw on those old mission files, which is all he can ask.

"I'm glad you killed her," Eggsy says forcefully. "I know I ain't supposed to say stuff like that, but I'm glad. I'm really fuckin' glad. And… and…" Harry looks up to see him flushing red, but doggedly determined to have his say. 

"I ain't never gonna let anyone hurt you like that again," Eggsy vows. "Swear it, Harry."

The promise is touching, because he knows Eggsy means every word, but also rather embarrassing. "I can take care of myself, you know," he says gently.

"Not sayin' you can't," Eggsy returns. "I'm sayin' you won't have to." His jawline hardens as he gives Harry a look of pure stubborn, blind love.

There is absolutely nothing Harry can say to that, so he doesn't even try. He just sits there, amazed all over again by the sheer force of nature that is Eggsy Unwin.

Silence falls between them, weighted with all the words they have yet to say. Harry exhales slowly. He doesn't want to talk about Cassandra, but he knows he must. Arthur has already informed him that he must meet with Dr. Ng before he is cleared to return to duty. It's a condition that doesn't surprise him in the least.

And then there is Eggsy. Watching those old videos without any context or explanation. No doubt misunderstanding much of what he saw, while understanding other things far too clearly. He owes it to Eggsy to tell him the truth.

"All right," he says, a bit too loudly. "Ask me. Ask me anything you like, and I will answer you." _But only for today_ , he thinks. _I can't possibly do this a second time._

Eggsy blinks in surprise. But he barely hesitates before he says, "Why'd she do it?"

It's not at all the question Harry was expecting. "Haven't you figured it out yet?"

Eggsy shakes his head, the corners of his mouth turning down. "Figured what out?"

So Harry reveals Cassandra's biggest secret, the one he discovered on his own with only a little help from Merlin and Kingsman to confirm his guess. He takes no pleasure from dragging it out into the open, and he supposes that means there's hope for him, after all.

That house in Surrey, formerly Pemberley and now with no name, was Cassandra's home long before she owned it. She grew up in its echoing halls and rooms full of dustcloth-covered furniture, the daughter of one of the kitchen servants. Invisible to its former owners, she made it her goal in life to buy the house the moment she could afford it. It was the first prize she claimed, her first real defiance against the country that she hated. Every time she walked through the front door, an act that had been forbidden to her as a child, she was telling its former owners to fuck off.

"It was little wonder she hated England and the class system that still rules here," Harry says. "So she decided to sell our state secrets to the highest bidder."

Eggsy doesn't seem to know what to say to this. Twice he starts to ask another question, only to stop himself before the words come out. At last he says, "I wasn't expecting that."

"No, she was very good at confounding expectation," Harry says. Right up until the end.

Eggsy nods a little. His jaw tightens mutinously again, and that's all the warning Harry gets before he says, "Did you really love her?"

Harry looks at him. "No," he says. "And yes."

Eggsy flinches a little, unable to hide his shocked hurt.

It's difficult to put it into words. He doesn't like this, sifting through emotions twenty years old, things he never expected to have to deal with again. "Part of me did," he says. "I think that's why I hated her so much."

The look on Eggsy's face cuts him to the quick. It's the way Eggsy looked at him on the day he failed his test with JB, the day they said such hateful things to each other. _You fucking freak._

It terrifies him to see that disgust in Eggsy's eyes again. He doesn't want to think about what will happen if Eggsy can't forgive him. 

"Don't look at me like that," he says. He intends for it to sound firm, but instead it's almost a plea. "It had to be real, at least on some level. She would have known the difference. She was very good at spotting a lie."

Very good, yes. Not good enough, though, in the end.

"I think, though," he says slowly, "I think I loved the idea of her more than anything else."

"The _idea_ of her?" Eggsy asks. He looks like he doesn't quite know what to do with that, whether he should be more disgusted or not.

He nods. "That I could find a partner who was strong and intelligent. Who shared my disdain for the classist attitudes in English society. Who knew what they wanted and wasn't afraid to do whatever it took to get it."

He looks at Eggsy. "And then I met you. And it just so happens that you fit all those criteria." He dares to smile, and hopes it will be enough.

For a long moment Eggsy stares at him, considering all of this. In that silence Harry's heart breaks a thousand times over. It occurs to him then that he was wrong when he thought that he would never again let anyone decide what happens to him. Eggsy has that power over him, and always has. And yet it's a power he doesn't fear in the slightest. Because this is real. This is what it is to love someone.

Eggsy makes a small sound in the back of this throat. Then he smiles back at Harry, big and goofy.

Harry's heart skips a beat, mending itself in a flash. His shoulders slump a little as he's able to breathe again. They're going to be okay. He knows it then for sure.

Eggsy sets his drink aside and rises from his chair. He crosses the living room and sits on the couch next to Harry. He reaches out and takes hold of Harry's left hand and lifts it. Warm lips press a kiss to the scar there.

_Something to remember me by._

"You're the bravest person I ever knew," Eggsy says. His breath is warm on Harry's skin. He stays like that for a second – a second that actually seems to linger for an eternity. Then he gently lowers Harry's hand back down. "And maybe the stupidest."

Taken aback, Harry stares at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"How could you think I didn't want you?" Eggsy asks, and Harry knows they are done talking about Cassandra for tonight. Hopefully for ever. This is about what came before her sudden appearance in their lives. This is about that long week of doubt and insecurity, and the ugly words Eggsy said that started the whole miserable affair in the first place.

"How could you think I didn't love you?" Eggsy says. He looks anxious, but his voice is soft.

Harry is honest with him. "My pride was hurt, and I allowed myself to think the worst, that you had decided you no longer wished to waste your life on an old man such as myself."

 _"Never,"_ Eggsy vows. "That ain't never gonna happen."

"I know that," he says. He expects the doubts will come back eventually – they always do – but for now, they are laid to rest.

Eggsy sways to the right and gently bumps his arm. "You old fool."

"Yes," Harry says. "I am."

Eggsy relaxes and smiles a little, the curve of his lips only serving to make his mouth look enticing. "Yeah," he says. "You are."

"And I seem to recall something about young fools as well," Harry says. He's never going to forget that moment at the party in New York, standing there with Eggsy in their respective roles as complete strangers. That moment when they raised their glasses in a toast of forgiveness and hope for the future.

"Those too," Eggsy says with a wider smile.

"Never doubt that I love you, Eggsy," Harry says. He knows it's somewhat over the top, but he doesn't care. He can blame it later on the fact that he almost died just two days ago.

But he knows he won't. He has a lot of regrets in his life, but this moment right now is not one of them. 

Cassandra had nearly ripped away their chance to put things right between them, and the happy future together they had promised each other, but he knows it need not have been so dire. Life and all its chaos and mystery is out there, just waiting to tear people apart without warning. Even if they weren't part of Kingsman, where they regularly risk their lives, there are still an infinite number of ways things can go wrong.

Eggsy moves into his arms, and Harry holds him close. It's something he plans to do a lot of in the future.

Because you never know when you might not get another chance.

********

_Epilogue:_

 

It's pitch black and pissing down cold winter rain by the time Eggsy finally gets home. He lets himself in with a curse and slams the door shut behind him. "Fucking hell," he mutters as he hobbles inside.

Harry looks up at him from the couch. He sets his book aside with a frown. "You're hurt."

Eggsy mops the water off his face and limps into the living room. In front of the window, the Christmas tree lights up the room; usually the sight of it makes him smile and feel a bit festive, but tonight he looks away without even really seeing it. "You know how in the movies they make rooftop chases look really cool? Yeah…they're really not."

Harry gets up and comes toward him. "I know," he says with sympathy. He's dressed down for the night, in a light grey jumper and slacks. The top few buttons of the white shirt beneath the jumper are undone, giving him a slightly debauched look even though Eggsy knows he's just been sitting at home for the last few hours, waiting for Eggsy to show up.

He turns away. He's not in the mood for sympathy, nor even cuddles with JB. He's tired, he's cold and wet, his ankle hurts, and his mission was a failure. His target died before Eggsy could get to him and the information he possessed. The only consolation is that no one else will get it now – but it's a cold consolation.

He opens his mouth to whinge some more, then shuts it. He knows if he starts, he won't stop. He'll just go on and on, and then he'll get to watch Harry grow irritated with him, and then they'll row, and that's not what Eggsy wants. Not at all.

It's only been two months since that terrible week when he thought they were never going to be okay again, but Eggsy hasn't forgotten a single bit of it.

"I'm just gonna take a shower," he says. He manages a smile. "Okay?"

"Of course," Harry says. He backs off.

Eggsy trudges upstairs, leaving a trail of cold rainwater behind him. He's not looking forward to tomorrow's debrief at HQ and having to explain to Arthur how he could let his target die. Every step on his injured ankle makes him wince, and feel even angrier; the pain would be worth it if he had succeeded.

He stays in the shower long after he's done washing up, just letting the hot water pour over him. He needs to pick himself up and get in a better mood. Otherwise he's going to blurt out something thoughtless and stupid again, like he did on that awful day when he nearly ruined it all.

At least this time there won't be a Cassandra Prescott to come along and make things worse. That's one good thing to have come out of that whole ordeal. Kingsman now tracks the whereabouts of every person who was ever arrested or dealt with in some manner due to their involvement, no matter how slight. No other agent will ever again have to deal with a nasty surprise like Cassandra.

Once was bad enough, though, and Eggsy knows they got lucky as hell. He's reminded of that every time he sees the scars on Harry's chest, still red but slowly fading to white as time passes.

He never did go back and watch the rest of the videos of Harry's mission, not even the last one, the only one that ultimately mattered, showing the meeting with the MI6 informant. He doesn't know the identity of that person and he doesn't care. The only person he cares about from that long-ago summer is sitting downstairs, waiting for him.

All at once Eggsy makes a decision. He feels immediately better, more light-hearted and like himself again. He turns the water off and just stands there for a moment, grinning.

So it's not what he had planned. Maybe this is even better.

He towels off, brushes his teeth, then gets dressed again. Not in the old, comfortable T-shirt he was originally going to wear, but one of his nicest suits, the grey one with the purple tie. He combs his hair, ties his shoes, and heaves a deep breath. One last look in the mirror to make sure he looks okay, then he's headed back downstairs.

Before he can lose his courage.

Harry has been busy while he was in the shower. JB is curled up in his bed, which means he's been taken out for the night. There's a plate of reheated food on the dining room table, along with a bottle of his favorite lager. And beside his plate is a neatly wrapped box.

For half a second his heart skips a beat. But no, this box is larger, and in fact, as he comes closer he realises he knows exactly what it is. The size gives it away. "No way!"

"That game you wanted came out yesterday," Harry says. He looks curiously at Eggsy's suit and tie, but doesn't say anything. "I know you'll spend the next week doing nothing but playing it and that's fine, but I do have to warn you that I have no compunctions about pulling the plug if you ignore me three times in a row."

"I won't," Eggsy vows, knowing perfectly well that he's going to do exactly that, and that Harry is going to be true to his word. It's a stupid argument already in the making –- and he can't wait. "Thanks!"

"You should eat something," Harry says, with a gesture to the plate on the table.

"Yeah," Eggsy says. "But there's something I need to do first." He glances at the table. "Er. You should probably sit down."

Wary now, Harry sits in the chair at the head of the table. His face is very still, giving away nothing. If he has any suspicions about what's coming, it doesn't show.

Eggsy takes a deep breath. The last time he was feeling so recklessly grumpy, he said ugly words that made Harry think Eggsy didn't want him because he was too old. It's time now to say the words that show what he really thinks of the years between them.

He hasn't rehearsed this, hasn't done anything more than imagine it occasionally when he's feeling the most daring. He doesn't know why he's waited so long. Maybe waiting for the perfect moment to present itself. When really he ought to know that there is no such thing.

You have to make your own moments.

He's got no ring, no fancy speech prepared, no flowers. There is no champagne and no romantic music. But he doesn't need any of that. None of that stuff _means_ anything.

All he needs are the right words.

His heart is beating so loudly he's amazed Harry can't hear it. He drops down to one knee, wincing a little as his injured ankle protests at the movement. "Harry Hart, will you spend the rest of your life with me?"

Harry's breath catches. "Oh, Eggsy."

" 'Cause I love you," Eggsy says, "And I want the whole world to know that." He imagines them walking down the street together, exactly as they do now, but with twin gold bands shining on their fingers. Or maybe platinum, who knows? The thing is, they can decide what they want. And they get to do it together.

They get to do it _all_ together.

The thought of it makes him grin. "So? What do you say?"

"Eggsy, I…" Harry's eyes shine suspiciously bright as he shakes his head.

"Just say yes," Eggsy says. "That's all you gotta do."

Harry stares at him for a long moment, so long that Eggsy's heart falters and he thinks he maybe just made the worst mistake of his life. And then Harry smiles, warm and happy, the dimple in his cheek showing itself. "Yes," he says. "Yes."

"Yes!" Eggsy exults. He shoots to his feet. "Fuck yeah!"

"So romantic," Harry says dryly as he stands up.

"Just shut up and kiss me," Eggsy demands.

It's hands down the best kiss they've ever had. Harry's hand is on his back, the other cupping the back of his head. Eggsy pulls him close until they're pressed together, Harry's body warm against his. His lips slide over Harry's, soft and wet, their breath heating the air between them.

By the time they break apart he's ready to go upstairs and properly celebrate the good news. Harry clearly is, too, but he takes a moment to gaze at Eggsy quite seriously. "I'm so very lucky to have you."

"Yeah, you are." Eggsy winks. It's stupid. He knows it's stupid. He doesn't care.

"Cheeky bugger," Harry says with a fond smile. His thumb strokes Eggsy's cheek so lightly, barely brushing the skin.

The touch makes Eggsy shiver. "Yeah, but isn't that why you love me?"

"Oh, my dear," Harry says, serious again. "There are far more reasons than that."

"Yeah?" Eggsy says, and it's only half a challenge. "Well, go on then. I'm listening."

"I fully intend to tell you them all," Harry promises. "But I think I'll start with one I can just show you."

Eggsy throws both arms around him. He feels like laughing and crying all at the same time. He honestly doesn't think he's ever been this happy.

Then Harry kisses him, and Eggsy changes his mind. This right here. This is the moment.

He's never been happier.


End file.
